


Unexpectations

by kiera81487



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Hurt, M/M, Mpreg, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 11:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11058051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiera81487/pseuds/kiera81487
Summary: Brian and Justin cross paths after a period of distance and uncertainties. How do they make sense of each other?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was first posted over on LiveJournal, circa 2011 (in case it reads familiar to you). I reached approximately 11 chapters over there, but haven't updated it in at least four years. All that dwelled there will now dwell here, and (hopefully) new chapters, too. 
> 
> My writing cells are a bit rusty, so please read with forgiveness.

I ring the doorbell then step back, straightening my tie. My reputation is all in presentation, and it's _always_ the best.

"Oh, hello Brian. I wasn't expecting you," Jennifer answers a bit surprised yet polite. We hug. "Please, come in." I enter, but stay by the door.

The house is crowded with appropriateness. People, pictures, flowers and finger food. 'Can't beat country club training', as Justin used to say. Thoughts of her son leave, as I offer a bouquet of white lilies.

"My condolences Jennifer. Kitty was a lovely lady, and I'm not just saying that because she was my client."

"Thank you Brian. I miss my aunt dearly, but she lived a wonderful life. For her, the fondness was mutual." She turns to lay my gift on a table, a tear in her eye. She smooths out her elegant black dress, and pearls, to gain composure.

"May I offer you a drink? Scotch, neat, right?" I gently stop her from leading me out of the entrance, to the bar deeper in Kitty's grand living room. Boozing and schmoozing with a bunch of phony flesh-bags isn't part of the deal. I liked Kitty, a lot, but her family leaves a dirty trick taste in my mouth.

"Actually Jennifer, I must head back to the office. I couldn't make it to the service, but still wanted to pay my respects."

"Oh, of course. I understand. It truly means a lot to us." Her warm smile jogs memories of another blonde. "I'll walk you out." Jennifer guides me with a hand on my arm. The years have given us one of those unique relationships you only find in America. Justin and I are no longer a couple, but his mother and I can't get rid of each other, thanks to: her friendship with Debbie, being my realtor and, eventually, Kitty hiring me. Having her in my life hasn't killed me yet, so I figure it's working.

"Mom, Father James is ready to- _Brian_?"

I whip around speechlessly to face the voice. Kitty guest appearing at her own funeral wouldn't even pull this reaction. Think of the Devil and he'll appear, I guess.

"Justin." There's my voice. A lifetime of success has made me a master at damage control. I shake off the shock. _Never_ look how you feel.

Jennifer is caught in headlights. It's obvious, with all she's been through, she didn't think of this possibility. I don't blame her. She can't be guardian to mine and Justin's non-relationship. We're adults. She stutters to apologize for the inconvenient awkwardness. My hand on her back tells her not to bother. Instead, she remembers her escape route.

"I should go see what Father James wants." Coward. I stand tall in front of the only man to ever be my equal. I exude the cordiality I use on potential clients.

"How are you?" I break his trance. His pink, fluffy lips gape a couple times before his brain catches up.

"Good. Good. I'm good. Given the circumstances." At least he looks it. I know his art and New York are still a hit. Have been for a while. He hasn't changed much physically, besides the Adam Lambert-ish styled bangs. His face seems a bit fuller, but it works on him. I lock eyes with his deep blues.

"I'm sorry about your aunt."

"Thanks. I'm so used to her being here, I can't believe she's gone. After my da- Craig disowned me, she told me she stormed into his store during a busy clearance sale, and wrote 'Fuck You Nazi' on a $5,000 TV, in pink spray paint. She told him in front of his shoppers that 'only Nazis turn on their sons', and that he'd 'been marked'. It won't be the same without her." He's got a point.

"Well I'm gonna head back to work now, so..."

"Yeah, yeah, of course. How's Kinnetik these days? I see your ads all over Times Square. I'm proud of you." His comment is sincere, and smile genuine. I know he knows more than he claims to, after an _'anonymous well wisher'_ paid for the catering of our lavish "Kinnetik World" launch party last year.

"So am I. My original core staff's still putting up with me, but we've grown beyond expectation. As I always say: 'you can never be too big'." His cheeks blush and I smirk with a straight face, feeling the connection we still have.

As we attempt farewells, a dark haired lady I've never met, with a wriggling baby in her arms, interrupts. I see some resemblance and assume she's some kind of cousin. She looks me over flirtatiously before approaching Justin. What _is_ it with this family?

"Where's her bag? I think she's hungry." The 'she' in question is a tiny bundle of pink and blue, with curly light brown hair and a tan complexion, being passed off to Justin.

"In the kitchen. Her bottle's in the fridge. Microwave it for thirty-seven seconds. Thanks Sarah," Justin commands graciously. He's trying to calm the baby down, and the bitch is having none of it. A fussy whine pitches, too new for a lot of noise but enough for attention.

"You are hungry, aren't you? Hmm? Yes, I know. I know. You're gonna get your baba soon." He's cooing, smiling and soothing her in his arms, clearly forgetting my existence. For some reason, the exchange between them screams "routine". What's-her-name finally returns with something milk-like and hands it to Justin. She assures him she checked the temperature, before walking off. The nipple slides into the baby's mouth, and she sucks without abandon. 

"Still babysitting huh? At least Gus' no longer your most recent victim," I quip. I'll never deny how instrumental he is- _was?_ \- in my son's life. Especially his early years.

He looks up from "Ms. Piggy", seeing me for the first time. That look of discomfort means I'm missing something. I hope I'm gone before it's found.

"Oh God! Nobody _told_ you?" He's in disbelief.

"Told me what?" My eyebrows scrunch in pure confusion. I better Botox tomorrow.

"Uh, Brian," he says panicky, "she's my daughter."

Next time Kitty dies, I'll just mail my respects.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

"Come again?"

"You heard right. Her name is Nomine." My sad upbringing of Joan's Catholic prayers translates the name ( _nuh-mi-nay_ ) as Latin for 'name'. He is _such_ a fucking artist.

Nomine drinks her last drop, sucking only air. Justin removes the bottle, and burps her, one handed, against his shoulder. I'm too lost to be impressed.

"Brian? Say something," he bounces lightly in place.

"Um, _congratulations_? What the fuck am I supposed to say? You had a kid. Good for you." He seems a bit hurt, but fuck hurt. He's had to be a man before he was ever a boy. He'll get over it. Besides, I have no desire to hear how he and some happy-little-homo-husband brought a new life into the world.

"Guess that's expected."

"It is what it is. You didn't think it was important to tell me before, no need now."

"Things were complicated. Besides, I figured Mom would've come home and blabbed to you, when I had her last month." He looks at me, then exhales. "I never planned to spring her on you like this. I didn't even think you'd be here today."

"Well Sunsh- Justin, you did. At least she's beautiful. I'd hate to have to tell you your baby's ugly, with the situation as it is."

He smirks, knowing I'm willing to go no further with this drama. This is his shit to handle, not mine.

"As I said ten minutes ago, I gotta go. Glad you're good. Take care of yourself, Justin."

"You too. Glad I got to see you, after all. Bye, Brian." Nomine burps as I open the door. The kid has great timing.

\---  
Back at Kinnetik, I force myself to be productive, but that _wench_ keeps polluting my mind. I'm not sure how I wanted our reunion to have gone- never thought of one before. A baby just seems like upping the ante. _Are we competing_? No, we're nothing- have been for some time. Seeing him tonight brought home that point. Damn it, Justin needs to be less local! I'm getting PTSD.

I light a cigarette, allowing the warm nicotine to calm me. Breaking up seemed easier when we were still together. We ended our eternal engagement, on mutual terms, two years ago. We were playing the New York City/Pittsburgh game a few years prior, until our careers once again became the dirty mistress. Justin was exploding all over the country. I had the global market on its knees. We would've been a _mega_ force, had we stuck it out. Neither of us would afford the sacrifices to make it work, though. There was no other option.

We let bygones be bygones, and cut the cord. The change was sudden. One day we were _us_ , the next day, _him_ and _me_. History wasn't saving us this time, it was officially over. Justin stayed away, knowing I would erase him from my life and move on. _Complete_  dissolution is still the only way I cope with losing love. I figure he visits and keeps up with our family. They silently agree to keep him out of my reality. Do they know about the baby? If they do, those queens are better at shutting their mouths than they used to be.

"Brian, Kyoto Visuals is on video conference," Cynthia barges in. The shit I let her get away with. "Those guys are serious. It's like one in the morning over there!"

"That's because their employees actually _work_ for their pay, a concept lost on my payroll of hasbeens." I glare as she munches the handmade Swiss truffles on my desk. She smiles and takes the tray with her.

"Thanks Boss!"

I switch my brain to Japanese, then open my video phone browser. Kyoto's board of directors and I exchange greetings, before sharing files on their campaign's final draft.

\---  
A quarter past God-knows-when, I set the building's alarm. Feeling foggy, I detour from the loft to Britin, my hideaway for turmoil. Justin and I never settled our mutual assets. They've all been left as is, destined to be legal and fiscal blue balls if one of us kicks the bucket soon.

It's early September, but the remnants of summer blooms linger. The acres roll way into the distance of starry sky. I'm instantly comforted.

Inside, I unwind, in Justin's studio, with plenty to drink and little to wear. Being around pieces of his soul help me. I study my favorite, his self portrait, "Through Him". It's how he thinks I see him.

I keep an eye on his art world progress, for personal reasons. His fans and admirers assume he creates masterpieces through magic, but I know his origin. I remember his struggle, and know he fights and sweats for every victory his circumstances want to deny him. His art is him. He's his art. We're equals that way. Watching him succeed reminds me our time was never "wasted time". It added value. I'll always cheer for Justin, even when I neither speak to nor see him years at a time.

\---  
I wake up, hung over, to my phone dancing on the bed. "Whoever this is, please die as soon as possible," I hoarse out.

"Brian?" I sit up too fast to stay up, then groan. _Twice_ in twenty-four hours? _Really_ universe?

"Justin, _why_ are you on my phone at this barbaric hour?"

"It's almost five PM..."

"My point exactly. How can I get you off?-the _phone_ that is."

"Aunt Kitty's estate won't finalize for another week or so. I want to stay close to my Mom, but Molly home from school _plus_ out of town relatives make her house too hectic for a newborn." Is this a riddle? "I want to crash at Britin, instead of some hotel. Is that okay?"

"I've been free of you for two years, now you won't go away. You're like herpes." I lay across my bed, in a boneless heap. "What's ours is yours, so this call is pointless. You know the way. I'll be gone in an hour."

"I was just making sure you didn't plan on using it, or it wasn't being renovated or someth-" he pauses. "Wait. You're there now?"

"I plead the Fifth." I feel his eyes roll.

"Whatever. If it wouldn't be too much to ask, I'd like a hand when I get there. I'm sure you remember how many accessories tiny babies come with. Not to mention a bitch load of groceries."

"No can do, I might have plans."

"Since when do your plans occur before midnight?"

"Life's different without a ball and chain. You wouldn't know that though, would you?" I light my blunt, and blaze it to the gods, savoring Justin's misfortune. Anyplace outside New York is _my_ turf. He should've never crossed enemy lines.

"Save the act for your tricks, the material's old. Are you gonna help me or not?" I hear rustling through the phone, _she-terrorist_ must be winning another battle.

"Jesus Christ- just hurry the fuck up. And let yourself in! I don't need any loud noises." This weed needs to kick in already.

"YOU MEAN LIKE THIS?! THANK YOU BRIAN!" the twat screams in my ear and disconnects.

"Fuck my life," I mumble into my pillow, finally stoned. I stub the joint in the ashtray, scratch my ass, then pass back out.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

Sure enough, my migraine and I are woken by the doorbell. I stumble downstairs, almost losing my toes to "sober only" interior decorating, and open the door. All my senses are immediately _ambushed_. The bright sunset- what time is it?- burns my pupils, as a blur of blonde races past me. I hear a heavy _clunk_ and mentions of "pee" and "bags in trunk". Textured stone walkway pinches my bare feet. I taste the humidity in the air as it hugs my boxer-briefed body; the onset of a huge boner tenting the mauve Armani cotton. Unluckily for our neighbors, the properties are too massive for proximity; they're missing a free show only my pool boy and groundskeepers get to enjoy.

My biceps strain with the shitload of crap I took from Justin's car, and I head to the kitchen to show them the floor. My arms and head fall to the marble island, praying for salvation. Justin walks in with a relieved sigh, clunking the plastic car seat beside me. _That's_ what the sound was earlier.

"Slushies are a _bad_ idea before a forty-minute drive, no matter how hot it is." He sights his stuff. "Thanks for bringing these in for me, you're a lifesaver."

"Can you please turn down your life? I already warned you about being noisy."

He grabs a mesh bag filled with vegetables. "Aww, look Nom-Nom... another baby."

I deny him the pleasure of a reaction by tuning out his sarcastic smile. Instead, I cruise his body. Nothing wrong with that. No different from touring a house you used to live in, or, better yet, a car you used to drive. Just curious to see how it's been since I had it. The pregnancy revelation justifies his extra pudge. He either didn't get very fat, or he's melting the pounds fast; a genetic perk I'm sure makes him enemies at his OB. His ass sure seems to have put the lbs to good use. His appearance, on the other hand, says: "My closet is sponsored by local thrift stores." Big sunglasses, blue tank, grey board shorts and neon splattered ankle Chuck Taylors. New York can't solve everything, but at least he's pulling it off.

Back in the present, he's tossing a container of chive hummus in the fridge. I peek into the black contraption next to me to find Nomine, tucked in a green dinosaur blanket, yawning. Her big blue eyes briefly grab my attention and now yesterday's "beautiful" is upgraded to " _breath taking_ ". I see Justin's features all over her and figure her father back home must be hot too. Wonder why he didn't make the trip? He could've at least figured Justin would need an extra hand traveling with their daughter.

Nomine's yawn triggers my own and I feel beat.

"Thanks to your intrusion I'm still too wrecked to hit the road. My body needs proper rest in order to metabolize sex; I'm going back to bed," I smile innocently at the blonde by the stove. "I'm in the master suite. You and _that_ one must suffer in a guest dungeon."

"My daughter has a name, asshole."

"I know. It literally means 'name'. Think of that yourself, or did 'other daddy' see it in _Elle_ at the salon?" A flash of regret clouds his face at my last remark, but he changes subjects swiftly.

"Don't sleep too deep. Dinner's in an hour."

"How's that my concern?"

"You're practically anorexic! I'm grilling steak fajitas, with homemade guacamole."

"Sorry, I like my Mexican meat uncut. FYI: _this_ ," I slide my hand down my chest and abs, "is my summer body."

"How _is_ Javier these days? Still wearing those tight shorts? Tell him the landscaping's immaculate." Intuitive cunt. I grin tightly and head upstairs.

\---  
My sweet slumber is interrupted by Justin's voice. I thought Hell started _after_ death. I crack a groggy eye and see him standing by the bed. His words make no sense to my brain, so I roll over and ignore him. A persistent hand shakes me this time. Patience was never a virtue to him. I'm gaining conciousness.

"Before you think of knocking me out: I'm holding the baby."

"A month in and your kid's already a pawn. Nice parenting."

"You're one to talk," he scoffs.

"Fuck you. Was there something you needed?"

"Fajitas are ready. Made margaritas too."

"You shove a dildo in your ear? I made it clear I wasn't doing dinner."

"Come on, you love my fajitas. I used peppers from the garden," he sings with a doofy smile on his face. I'm not amused.

"Don't make us eat outside. Alone. What if there're wolves?" He melodramatically clutches Nomine to his chest.

"Christ, you are such a bossy bottom."

"Funny, 'bottom' isn't how I'd describe myself the last time we were together." He raises an eyebrow in challenge. He still thinks about the sex we had?

My Judas stomach grumbles and my head hangs in defeat.

"Fine. Let me freshen up. I'll be down in a minute."

"I need to see you walk to the bathroom first. You might go back to bed." I've taught him well. I grunt and stretch on my way to the sink, closing the door behind me. "Take care of that boner while you're in there, or I'll have to set a plate for it."

\---  
Dinner was delicious. I don't get much home cooking outside of Debbie these days. I sip my third margarita and let the icy fruity liquor coat my throat. The air adds warmth to our poolside lounging. I close my eyes and inhale.

"This drink's probably the gayest thing Britin's ever experienced. That's including the '2012 Orgy Olympics' we hosted during Pride."

"Dont worry, I added enough Patron to man it up," Justin lazily reassures.

I haven't heard a peep from the spitfire since her bottle and diaper change. She's balled up on his chest in a Mona Lisa onesie and cap, her fist at her mouth.

"She asleep?"

"Out like a light. I wanna grab her blanket though, seeing as her immune system's still too weak to fight for itself."

"Where'd you leave it?"

"No, I'll get it. I also wanna get those leftovers in the fridge before they go bad. Hold her?" The request startles my hesitant margarita mind. Justin lays her warm body on my bare skin before I can answer. "New baby" smell and powder invade my nostrils. My palm easily spans her entire back. She's really tiny.

Justin drapes the blanket over her, then kisses her head. I silently watch the intimate scene. The outside table and grill get cleared. Soon he's back in his lounger, refreshening our drinks. There was a whole pitcher. At least I'm helping him not waste it. I take a grateful sip, rubbing Nomine's back.

"Should you even be drinking? What about your breast milk?"

"Don't have any. Most men don't produce milk during pregnancy. My nipples did get swollen, and _really_ sensitive, though. I give her a special formula my pediatrician prescribes."

"I was a semi-dick yesterday. You _did_ drop a bomb on me, but she's amazing. Always knew you'd make a great dad; I'm never wrong." His face lights up and he shifts to his left side, facing me holding his daughter. "I'm happy for you." He traces her soft cheek, lost in awe.

"It means a lot hearing that from you. I wanted this ever since I saw you hold Gus in the hospital. We're nothing like the sacks of shit we got stuck with." The power of his words conjure up best forgotten memories. He and I started out differently, but reached the same outcome. Unlike our "fathers", we became real men.

"We aren't."

"Wish that was true for her son of a bitch _sperm donor_."

I wrongfully brush his statement off as an intoxicated exaggeration. "I'm sure hubby didn't mean to forget the dry cleaning. You'll forgive him when you get home, with extra Eskimo kisses," I tease. Justin's life can't be anything but über saccharine. I think of some poor foot rubbing tall-dark-and-handsome sucker, doting over his happy family. They'd be the younger, hotter, hipper, all around more intresting Mikey and Ben, minus the lesbians, child prostitute and conformity. Unshed tears tell me I'm way off target. Under the moonlight his eyes shimmer, like glass. I can tell his heart is just as fragile.

"I should take her in." He reaches for his daughter, unwilling to look at me. I block his advance and he re-sits numbly.

"You're just gonna piss her off before she's ready for her 2AM feeding. She's fine right here." He thinks I don't remember life on a newborn schedule.

"What's going on with you Sunshine?" My concern grows.

"Brian, don't. You lost the right to call me that," he whispers to no one.

"I haven't lost shit. We are what we are, doesn't mean we lost what we were. I've got a high enough blood alcohol, so tell me what's wrong," I demand.

His attempted lightheart snort opens a hitched sob. My heart tightens as his head crumbles to his knees, toes perched on the cushion's side. Beautiful agony.

"I fucked up," he gasps. Nomine twitches an inch. I cover her ears with her cap and blanket, soothing her back with my left hand. My right pulls Justin's neck to my shoulder, forcing him to kneel on the slate ground at my side. Waking the baby is too risky for a full embrace.

"Shh, shh, shh. I got you, I got you. Shhh," I breathe into his ear. Gripping his neck, I think of every horrible possible scenario behind his pain. Protective rage fills me, but only the horse's mouth can tell his story.

"Sorry. I'm such a queen," he sniffles. I pass him the roll of paper towels by our drinks. Back on his lounger he faces me, hugging his knees. Aftershocks ripple his compact frame.

"Sorry's bullshit. Start talking." I'm boardroom serious. He knows better and opens his mouth. I nod encouragingly.

"Soon after you and I called it quits, the city of Atlanta commissioned me to work on their main stadium, the center of their re-imaging. They were arresting pastors and politicians weekly, and the country was disgusted. Even as the 'gay capital', centuries of being racist chauvinistic homophobes was biting them in the ass, and they desperately wanted to be seen as 'progressive' again. I moved there with the engineer and construction teams, for a number of months."

Kinnetik managed that entire campaign. We even profiled celebs explaining why Atlanta was somewhere people should care about. It consumed us for a year; we're still enjoying royalties to this day.

"All the major Georgia sports teams got involved. Some of the teams held their training camp at the stadium's complex, so I was introduced to tons of athletes, and even invited to watch games courtside." I took Justin to the SuperBowl once, and he sat in our box sketching the crowd. "One night, I was working late on a mural. The meaning just wasn't blending with the medium and it frustrated the shit outta me. The basketball team was leaving the locker room, and DeShawn Jacobs came over to admire my work. He saw the underlying themes of growth and rebirth and I was floored." His red tear stained face lights up a bit at the memory. "He put my mind at ease and we talked the rest of the night. Turns out he was an Art History major at Morehouse, but going pro kept him from doing anything with it. Before I packed up, he asked me to go to an art opening, and have drinks with him, that weekend."

Justin's story intrigues me. DeShawn is a super athlete- the LeBron James of his generation. He's been out the closet since college, and the number one NBA draft after graduation, signing a $700 million five year contract. I met him through the campaign, and he flirted his ass off. He was 6'6", with two hundred pounds of ripped muscles. He had cocoa eyes, huge firm lips, ass as chisled as his abs and hairless milk chocalate skin, with his team's mascot tattooed across his back. His deep voice made the floor vibrate when he spoke, and he always flashed a pearly white smile. He would've been a "top ten fun fuck", but I never let bystander cock interfere with business, no matter how long and thick it swings in silky gold jersey shorts. Fucking the guy that cuts my check means money; his employee can't buy ad space. Knowing there's no happy ending, I wish Justin had heeded that mantra too.

"We completely hit it off. Every date was better than the last. We weren't a secret, but, because I hate feeling broadcasted, I made sure our PR people kept us off 'Page Six'. I returned to New York for my MoMA exhibit and we did the dual city thing. Not at all being a big sports fan, I only went to a few New York games for support," he rolls his eyes. "DeShawn surprised me at a few shows, adding a couple of my pieces to his collection. I really cared about him." He takes a deep breath. Nomine's drooling on me; she must be dreaming about food.

"He moved into my place during his off seasons, since art doesn't take breaks. Things were going good. I never expected anyone after you, I never felt ready, but he came, and we worked. Until..." He shakes his head, and turns his face to wipe his tears. I guess history just got painful. "Until I found out I was pregnant. It was around the Holidays. We were traveling between my Mom and his family and I felt _off_. I went for a check-up and a couple tests later: I was with child. Condoms just aren't made out of Teflon anymore." He pauses to stare at the sleeping guest of honor. He shakes his head.

"Of course, I was petrified! I'm petrified by a fresh canvas, or when a new show opens, or everytime some guy grabs my heart. Fear is good for me. Having a baby's no different. I was worried about juggling my life. You remember how rapidly my career was moving," he looks at me. "I didn't know if it'd be better or worse, I just knew I wanted her. The moment I found out she was here, a beige dot on a color ultrasound, I loved her. I made that dot. We made her.

"I told DeShawn on Christmas. He was far from thrilled; I think he was expecting socks." I chuckle at that. Justin always had a quirky way of lessening his lemons.

"He told me: 'the timing is crazy'; 'a baby doesn't work into our picture'; I should 'take care of it'." Justin's trembling lips can't go on. I drag his chair closer for support. I can't imagine how fucked up this was for him. He looks over our monumental pool, begging for strength from anywhere. His voice is stripped, deep with tears, but his words survive.

"He, he just rejected our baby! Like she didn't matter! Like _I_ didn't matter! He put his foot down, threatening ultimatums. He said I'd never see a dime of child support, like I didn't already have billions in the bank.

"This went on a couple days. I finally admitted I was keeping Nomine. He questioned the paternity. I lost it," he shakes his blonde head. "Blame the hormones or nausea or frustration. I knocked him on his ass and got in his face. I said how dare he accuse me of being unfaithful. I told the motherfucker to pack his 'shit and get the _fuck_ out!' It was a bold move standing up to a man that bench pressed me sometimes as a joke. We were alone. He could've easily damaged me that night, made me miscarry. He didn't touch me though. I was too busy throwing his thousand dollar sneakers in the hall, and cursing him to Hell, to notice. Having your world rip to shreds with a 'Joy to the World' soundtrack is quite surreal." He takes a drink, hugging the full glass to him. I've not spoken two words since he started sharing. Even tipsy, I know he needs me to listen. It's all in past anyway. Nothing I say will undo anything.

"I'm just glad we weren't more public. The last thing I needed was 'baby daddy drama' reaching my clients and colleagues. He returned to Atlanta and fucked everything with a dick, I heard. His sex tape's nominated for an AVN. I only did interviews shoulders up, and my agent was a ruthless _hawk_ about which shots magazines could publish.

"Daphne, doing her residency in Queens at the time, was my backbone the whole pregnancy. Men weren't even allowed to ask me for the time." I share his chuckle. Daphne can be scary, but she's Justin's better half. "My Mom stayed through my last trimester and delivery. Aunt Kitty took a turn for the worst two weeks after Nomine was born, so she had to head back here to help out. Two of my friends even crash overnight, giving me a moment to shower and remember my name. Don't let her bite-size cuteness fool you, my daughter is one high maintenance queen," he laughs.

"People suspect she's DeShawn's, I mean _duh_ , but it's too taboo to mention, so they avoid the topic. Luckily, I can afford to be on my own. I have access to reliable help, and she travels with me to different projects. Mom and Molly are in love with her and Deb almost didn't give her back when we visited."

"The gang knows then."

"Yeah. Mom told Deb when I got pregnant, leaving out the uglier details. Deb then told the western hemisphere."

"Except me," I murmur.

"I wanted to tell you, Brian. As much as I loved DeShawn, I missed you so much. You were always my first. My best. Sometimes, I just wanted to hear your voice. Everyday, I wondered how things would've been if it was _your_ baby I was carrying. I always imagined that for us."

"You know me well enough to know I'd be no less than ecstatic, but she isn't mine Justin, and her father _wasn't_ ecstatic. It kills me that some big dick fucker and his ego turned your dream come true into a nightmare, but it happened. You're stronger for it though, and, as a bonus, you got Nomine. DeShawn's the one that lost." He nods and sniffles.

"You should've called me. Not just for the _Maury_ madness, but when she was born. I would've been there for you. It would've been hard, but I would've been there."

"Just like you always have. Remember that terrible write-up in the New Yorker?" I nod. "Three galleries pulled their offers to show my paintings, the _day_ it went online. I thought I was over. Then I came home and found a framed enlargened copy of the article leaning on the loft door. 'BEST HOMOSEXUAL' was logoed in huge orange letters across it. I hung it above my easel, and cried. Then I laughed. I painted _Victory_ that night."

"Your first six-figure piece."

"All your fault," he grins. "You were always good to me, Brian. Teaching me to survive on my own. To rely on myself, and dodge the bullshit. When my hand was crippled and everyone else tried kissing it better, you put an electronic paintbrush in it and gave me back my art." A tear escapes and Justin looks at me. My throat constricts. Maybe this druken trip through Christmas Past was a bad call. "There was no way I could've called you. I was so embarassed about DeShawn 'knocking me up' and abandoning me, I thought you'd be disappointed in me. Like with Ethan," he chokes up. The name hardly stings now. Justin and I've lived on since his guest appearance. He's no threat.

"You're such a twatty twink." I affectionately smooth his hair. "You can't control the world," I softly remind him. "Before you leave this mortal realm, men are gonna let you down. The trick is to never let them keep you there. You didn't stay down. You saw the bullshit, escaped the brunt of the damage, and stayed strong for your kid."

"I did." He wipes his nose, looking at me hopefully.

"You did. And you can bet your next dye job I couldn't be prouder."

Justin guffaws into his tissue and smacks my shoulder. "I do not dye my hair! You _know_ this is my natural color."

"Easy! Baby on board," I point to Nomine, balled up on my chest. He rolls his eyes and kisses her tiny nose, resting his hand just under her padded diapered bottom.

"I should warn you, she drools like a walrus."

"Gee, thanks for the heads-up, but I've noticed." I pull Justin to my side, staring seriously into his eyes. "You're gonna wake up one day and know you won." He throws me his trademark Sunshine smile in return, and I know he'll make it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

"Brian, let's go in."

I feel a soft pressure on my head. "Hmm?"

"C'mon. You're gonna mess up your neck chair-sleeping all night."

The pressure's on my arm now, forcing me to my feet. "Up you go."

"Jeez, I'm not _that_ old."

"You are the most ageless person I know—and I live in New York."

I Frankenstein my half asleep body through the glass doors, to help Justin lock up. Nomine's blue button eyes stare over his shoulder, unfocused. I wonder how she interprets what she's seeing.

"When'd she wake up?"

"About half an hour ago. She was doing her 'feed me' growl.

"It's weird, I don't remember ever falling asleep," he says.

The kitchen darkens with light taps of his fingers on the touchscreen. Moonlight through the sitting room's cathedral windows illuminate the elaborate oak grand-staircase. We climb it in a daze, separating at the top.

"Night, guys."

"G'night, Brian."

\---  
Sunday starts better than Saturday. I feel refreshed and spring outta bed. A morning swim is all I can think of while brushing my teeth.

The main floor is silent—I'm glad Justin's ward's allowing him five seconds actual sleep. I program the café for an amaretto latte, then check my email on the touchscreen wall.

Minutes later, my mug and I are outside inhaling nature. The Indian summer we've bared since late June must want to hang on till December! The weathermen, though, predict fall's arrival before September ends. A group of "Bambi"s nibble by our lake; they can fatten their deer hearts up, so long as they stay out of our crops.

I rest the now half empty mug at my feet. My boxers hit the ground; the air kisses my ass. I pierce the water, head first, in a clean streamline. Underwater, my manhood shrink—thanks to Mother Nature's cruel joke on all males; she's got to be a dyke. The water is colored various shades of blue, green and turquoise for a natural ocean effect. The pool floor is covered in sand and shells, flown in from The Carribean and Australia. It beaches on a shore of rocks, waterfalls and plants.

The half acre pool was inspired by a trip to the Great Barrier Reef Justin and I once took. We planned a massive overhaul soon after the purchase, intent on creating our contemporary country castle; all the original eighteenth century construction, meshed with decadent twenty-first century accessories—calming rustic charm meets manly modernism.

Months of work, by teams of marine biologists, chemists, architects and the Pittsburgh Aquariam Society, or PAS, turned the entire deep end into a living breathing mini-ocean. Pockets of algae and silver sardines float about. Synthetic colorful coral reefs, covered in sea plants and scavenger organisms, are built along the floor. Dozens of tropical fish, a few sea turtles, some seals, an octopuss couple—both male, I'm told—a dolphin herd, some mini sharks—assured to never become _Jaws_ —and a huge variety of crustaceans go about their lives, beneath the surface. A highly advanced filtration system keeps the pH, sodium and temperature levels safe for all, while keeping the water clean and flowing to discourage the breeding of harmful bacteria—just like nature. The pool walls are glass tanks, extended from the separate aquarium units, where we house whales, regular sharks, sting rays, jellyfish and other large, potentially more dangerous, sea creatures. "Swimming" with these giants, without the risk of becoming prey, never gets old. Pretty much all of our "pets" were donated by

PAS, who rescues abused, overpopulated or retired marine animals, worldwide; some of the fish came from overstocked local pet shops. They needed a safe haven that public institutions were too stretched to give, so we— _Justin_ —said "sure". The operation runs itself. The normal food chain and life cycle laws are in full effect, and once a month a team of ten visit to examine and record changes. We even allow PAS to host small school trips every blue moon. Now, if I could only get those male mermaids I've been petitioning for...

I swim to Dancer, a retired Sea World dolphin. He's slower in his old age, but likes a little playtime. Perched on the lower ledge, I toss his beach-ball with him. After a nose-ball-dance performance, he comes right up to me for a petting. Dolphins really are intelligent creatures. I kiss his nose and he submerges to play with his friends.

"You're still a nudist I see."

I turn to see Justin looking down at me. He's wearing a white t-shirt and yellow boxer briefs, with a pink burp cloth over his shoulder. Nomine's wearing a blue and white floral onesie and cap, scrawny newborn legs covered in leopard socks up to her thighs; she must've had a bath.

"I like giving back to the community."

He sits at my left and scoots to the edge, until his knees level my elbow. He smiles at the vibrant activity under his toes, keeping a firm hand on his baby's back.

"Which charity does your cock benefit?"

"It gives homos hope. That's priceless."

His eyes roll. "Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Harvey Milk."

A turtle paddles upto my leg. I place it near Justin.

He lights up. "Picasso! He got so _big_!" His hand rubs the bumpy shell and fins. Picasso's as interested as a sea turtle can be, and starts pushing back to the edge. He slides in as Dolce  _eeh eek_ s for attention.

"I'm not picking _her_ up."

"Hey Dolce! I missed you too." He's too worried about Nomine to lean over and rub her head, so she settles for a foot pet. Dolce keeps singing and splashing. "Somebody's got a serious foot fetish."

"It's the baby—she's curious. You should put her in the pool."

"I'm not throwing my one-month-old to a dolphin, Brian."

"Did I say you should? I meant get her feet wet. She swam inside you; it'd be familiar territory." He remains unconvinced. "Dolce, go play girl!" I spike the beach-ball a distance from us and watch her torpedo to it. "She's gone. Now let the kid have some fun."

"It's too dangerous."

"Would either of us let her get hurt?"

"She doesn't have a suit. Besides, the water might be too cold for her."

"Neither do I, and the water's _eighty_ degrees." I hold my hands out, seeing as my seat's closer to the water and I'm already wet.

"Just her ankles; I'm only removing her socks." He reluctantly passes his barefoot daughter to me.

I take her with both hands, and press her back to my chest. Ankle deep in the water, she immediately begins an erratic kick, clearly liking the wet fluid sensation. She can't squeal or laugh yet, but her mouth and eyes widen with every move.

I burst out laughing at the sight, then say to Justin, "see?! She loves it!"

He leans over to cover his daughter in proud kisses. "You're swimming for Daddy?! Huh? You're such a pretty girl! My pretty girl!" I'd puke if they weren't so fucking adorable together. We give her a few more phone recorded minutes, then decide it's brunch time.

\---  
I lift from the wetness and snag a towel out the cabana. I dry off, then wrap it around my waist, en route to the kitchen. Justin's changing Nomine into dryer clothes, so I scan the fridge for something to prepare. I see last night's leftovers and fresh eggs—steak & egg fajitas it is. I'm heating up the pans and chopping cilantro when he walks in. The baby's tucked into her straw Moses bassinet, zonked out—she's been busy.

"I'm making a fruit salad: mango, guava and kiwi. Sound good?" Justin asks, looking through the baskets of fresh produce kept in the kitchen's east wing.

"Sure."

Arms loaded with fruit, Justin walks to the wide marble island. He taps a button to reveal the cutting board compartment, then selects a knife. I rinse a bowl and place it in front of him.

"Thanks," he smiles and starts peeling.

\---  
In no time, the stove is off and I'm bringing two steaming plates to the cozy cushioned nook, by one of the kitchen windows. Justin—now sipping some "ginger-honey-orange" tea concoction from a dainty teacup—has already set silverware, fruit and lemonade for us. I lay his food before him, watching his mouth water.

"Oh! I forgot the bit of guacamole we left last night," he jumps up suddenly.

Returning with a small glass bowl, he plops into his chair and digs in. "Mmm! You still make great omlettes."

"Stay around Debbie and Vic long enough, you're bound to work in a kitchen."

"Too true. I baked like a housewife the little time I lived with them. Vic did know his pancakes..." We smile fondly.

"Sometimes I forget he's gone," I admit. "He was always Mikey's cool 'gay' uncle, when we were younger—way before 'gay' was 'cool'. I'd look so forward to his visits; he was the first man that ever cared about me."

I rake my fruit with my fork. "Then he got sick. Then he got _really_ sick." I stare at a chunk of guava. Justin reaches for my hand, but thinks better of it and withdraws. "HIV is real. AIDS is real. Vic is real. No amount of pills, or Magic Johnson stories, will change that. People get it, and one day it makes them suffer till they can't anymore."

"I know. I know. Look at Ben. He and Michael are forced to think about their lives in abstract everyday—Hunter too. They have to look at the future in ways we don't." Justin looks at Nomine's basket. "It's life, though, and they have to live it."

"To Vic." I clink my glass to his teacup, memories of "Uncle" Vic alive in my mind.

Justin clears his throat, "Debbie invited me over for dinner tonight."

"Debbie invites the mailman over for dinner."

"I think you should come."

I scrunch my face up. "And why the fuck would I do that?"

"Everyone's gonna be there; even my Mom."

"Reminder: you're convincing me to _go_."

"Brian, now that we're a bit better, we have to let our family off the hook—and don't tell me we don't."

"Look, Justin, we're all adults. With the exception of the kids, everyone understands."

"Bullshit! We were so strong together, Brian, that breaking us up caused a structural collapse. Some couples can just erase their past—split the furniture and move on—but we intersect through too many people. _They_ were left behind to sort out our pieces: 'don't mention Brian's surprise party to Justin'; 'hope Brian's out of town when Justin visits next month'; 'which one should I invite to my party?' A shitty custody battle."

Justin looks down, briefly. "We didn't prepare for it and got swallowed whole. That bomb we dropped fucked up everything, and everyone that supports us got hurt; we were just too caught up in _us_ to notice. They'll be happy, and comforted, to see we can stand in the same room with each other. Our family at least deserves to breathe again." He stares me down, incredulously.

I roll my eyes. "I never asked anyone for special treatment."

"That's the beauty of family: you never have to ask. They love us enough to protect our feelings. You showed me that last night."

"We were drunk off spiked margaritas."

"It still counts. I said things that were hard to say; they were harder for you to hear. The point is: after everything...you still listen when I need you to."

"So, what? We have deep history—almost made it to the _altar_ —naturally I'm someone you can rely on. There's no spiritual meaning behind it."

Justin confidently looks me dead in the eye. "It means you'll always be my family."

"Christ," I sigh. This weekend needs a fucking "pause" button. "You're gonna put ideas in their heads I'm not ready for them to have."

"No I won't. All I'll say is: 'Brian and I got a chance to talk'."

"It's too soon."

"Tell me, Brian, when is the right time?" he throws his arms to the ceiling, in frustration, "a few weeks from now, when I'm back in New York? Two more years of non-communication? Gus's damn _retirement_ party?

"Speaking of Gus—do you think of how this mess affects him? I've been there since the night he was born, then one day I'm gone. I'm not at the loft, or the diner, or his school play, or his birthday parties, or Christmas. No one even _whispers_ my name near you. I'm just a face on the videophone." Justin's eyes get watery. I feel kind of guilty.

"Gus needs to see us being civilized again. He's hearing all sorts of stuff and has lots of unanswered questions. His world's upside-down! I'm afraid to say anything that contradicts what his moms say, so I smile at his art projects, and hear about him and Joey riding bikes and playing football, instead. You think I don't miss him?—it kills me," his voice breaks.

Justin's words hit me. "I never kept Gus from you. He's as much your son, as he is mine; even Lindsay and Melanie agree."

"I know that. It's still been hard though. I was looking forward to him spending the summer with me, then Nomine..."

Huh? "Nice being the last to know."

"That's the point I'm trying to make!"

"Ok. You want the gang aware of this recent update—to put their poor minds at ease—but you're talking about unraveling the past two years."

"Ammending."

"Whatever. What are we supposed to tell them we are now? _BFFs_?"

"Reconciled fr-friends." I catch how he stutters on the last word. Somebody's biting off more than he can chew.

"Are we?"

"Yeah—I guess."

I chuckle. "You want me to place my fabulously groomed head on the chopping-block without a strategy?"

"I admit: I'm not sure where we stand," Justin sheepishly sweeps his bangs to the right. "I do know that last night's conversation made us face some fears. It was the step forward that got us to sign the peace treaty and demilitarize our borders."

I sit back and cross my arms. "It's not all 'water under the bridge' with us. Things ended the way they did, for a reason. It's a pattern with us," I explain. "Nothing's changed."

"I'm not denying that," he whispers. He looks up with pitiful blue eyes, "I just—Brian I need us to not be like _this_. I want you back in my life. I miss you."

He shared similar feelings last night, but my heart still jumps to sixth-speed, leaving my head spinning. I've tried hard to control all this craziness, but Justin isn't making it easy for me.

"Fine," I tersely bite out. I refuse to show him how much he affects me. "But, this is not a Barbara Walters special; there'll be no hand-holding or photo ops. Make your statement and that's it—no elaborating; us walking in together will say enough. Got it?"

"Got it," Justin nods with a slight smirk. He's obviously feeling vulnerable about all he's said to me.

"And we're driving separate cars, in case I need to escape the estrogen outbreak you're bound to ignite. Hope I'll remember to save Gus."

"It'll be like Lilith Fair made into a Tyler Perry movie," he says solemnly.

I nod in agreement. "A bunch of bitching hens swearing off 'evil' men."

"If only it were that easy," he sips his drink. Nomine makes a sound that gets his attention, but it's a false alarm.

I notice our forgotten food—can't believe Justin would ever leave something un-eaten—and still feel hungry. "Let me warm these up; this might be our last meal." I grab both plates and head to the microwave. "I'm gonna freshen my tea. Want some?"

I shake my head and lean against the counter, waiting for the chime. "Something you said made me think."

"Really?" Justin asks me in surprise, pouring hot water over the tea leaves.

"When you said we signed a 'peace treaty', I started thinking of which world region I'd like to be."

We settle back in our seats to finish eating, and I try not to stare at the way Justin's pink lips pucker when he blows on the steaming omlette. "The Middle East. Persian men are fucking hot."

"Is that all you ever think about?—don't answer that; I know better."

"What? I recently came back from hosting auditions for Babylon's _Arabian Nights_ Halloween event there. The socially opressed and religiously conservative ones are absolute _animals_ in bed! Smoldering dark features and danger—total turn-ons." I fold my whole wheat tortilla, stuffed with spicy steak omlette, peppers, onions, tomatoes and guacamole, into a neat fajita and take a bite.

"Funny. I'd think they were too hairy for your liking. Your scorecard's mostly filled with hairless pretty boys with great asses."

"Even a vegan can enjoy a steak, sometimes, Sunshine." I smile as he laughs behind his cup, forgetting about the situation that awaits us tonight at Debbie's.

 


	5. Chapter 5

"I'd fuck me."

I snap the buttons on my Cavalli jeans, a lit cigarette between my fingers. I hang it from my lips to pull on my boots.

One mirror check later, I take a long drag, crush the stick in my ashtray, and head downstairs.

\---  
Justin's in the main foyer, squatting over his "diaper bag"—metallic silver mesh with a colorful transparent plastic interior; 'Daddy's Best Friend' animatedly floats across the outer flap, which fastens with a striped pacifier clasp. Daddy Justin has yet to shock me.

Nomine's in her car seat, at his feet, wide awake. Her peach cotton dress, happy with smiling yellow sunflowers, engulfs even her tiny toes.

I watch Justin cram in a teddy bear and month's supply of wipes, suffering every new parent's theory: _My baby always needs everything when we're on the road._

"Justin?" I intervene.

"Yeah?"

"We're going to Debbie's, not the outback."

"What?"

I kneel beside Justin and rescue the bag from his eager hands.

A quick search tells me enough. "Ninety percent of this shit is overkill."

"How would you know?"

"I packed an 'escape from Jack and Joan' bag every week, since age three, and I also raised a son."

Justin's look of understanding hits me with nostalgia.

I clear my throat, "Just the essentials. 'Eat, clean, be merry'—remember that."

"Ooh…a slogan. Hope you don't bill me," Justin grumbles.

"You thought a still colorblind newborn needed an _Alphabetters_ picture book—I'd pay attention."

Justin learns quickly and, with his assistance, I finish in seven minutes, "Everything you need, a hundred pounds lighter. You should buy a refillable travel kit for her powders and stuff. Bulky bottles eat space."

Justin's impressed, "Wow. I don't remember doing this with Gus."

"We did—everytime we re-packed whatever Lindsay brought over."

I take my car keys from the dish and toss Justin his. We exit, baby and bag in hand, locking up and setting the alarm behind us.

"Don't worry. Each kid is a fresh chance to fuck something else up."

\---  
"It's about damn-" Debbie opens the door. Her eyes bulge at me looking back at her.

"Bri-Brian! Honey!" she wraps me in a hug. "I can't believe you're here."

"That's because you didn't invite me."

"Smartass."

I hear a commotion of " _Brian?_ "s and hurried footsteps. The usual culprits now crowd the doorway, frozen in shock.

"Hey, Debbie," Justin sweetly kisses Debbie's cheek. They embrace, pretending we aren't on the cusp of the belly of the beast.

"Hi, Sunshine!"

Now Debbie spies Nomine, "My grandbaby! Hi, precious!" Justin holds up the car seat for Debbie to torture his daughter. She twitches her face away, but red lipstick kisses stain her button nose anyway. I feel for her.

"Come insi—" Debbie attempts to move, but the human barricade behind her has petrified.

"What is this, 'The Ten Stooges'? Move!"

Debbie's bark disburses the gang, granting us access.

I follow Justin, carrying Nomine's bag. He parks her on Debbie's coffee table, and the crowd swarms for delayed greetings and hugs.

"Sorry about the awkward welcome. It's just—holy shit!" Mikey eloquently explains.

"It's okay, Mikey. I'm used to driving gays into a frenzy." I press my lips to Michael's.

"Brian, it's great seeing you…violating my husband," Ben pats me on the back.

I detach from Mikey to face his bigger half, "Don't worry Professor, when he's wearing you out tonight, you'll thank me for this foreplay."

"Why do we always walk up when you guys are talking about sex?" Melanie smiles, carrying Nomine and playing with her thumb-size hand.

"It's actually supposed to be lesbian repellant," I smirk.

Nomine's dress rides up, so I fix it. I catch Lindsay's un-subtle subtle stare, but she just smiles and kisses my cheek.

"It's good that you came. Gus will be thrilled seeing you and Justin together," Lindsay gushes.

"I know what you're implying, and we're not _together_.

"Where is Sonny Boy anyway?" I look around. "Too cool for his old man?"

"Jennifer and Molly took Gus and JR to _The Big Q_ for supplies," Melanie answers, moving Nomine to her shoulder.

"What do you mean 'not together'? You and Justin haven't spoken in years. I'd think showing up here, like this, means _something_."

"Maybe in Dykeland, Melanie, but Justin and I are not a couple—just two men making a regrettable decision."

I know Mikey's bursting with questions I'm sure I don't want to answer—this conversation is unfortunately happening. "Justin, they're all yours!"

Justin walks over from the kitchen. He, Debbie, and the others fill in what seats and chair arms they find.

"Who?" Justin smiles at Nomine wiggling against Ben's broad chest.

I cross my legs. "These lovely folks are curious about my being here, and nothing I say seems to be working."

Justin looks around with a sigh. Speeches over brunch don't prepare you for a live audience.

"Oh somebody say something—my nerves are fucking wrecked!" Emmett cracks. "Sorry, Nommie," he apologizes to the baby. "It's like waiting for the salesman to check for those yellow boots in my size, all over again."

"Maybe you should stop shopping in womens departments."

"But, ladies get the best styles and sales—Brian, stop changjng the subject!" Emmett smoothes his capris, anxiously tapping his foot.

"Alright, the truth is Brian and I did some imperative catching up this weekend, and have decided to be…friends." The room deflates.

"I know you expect more, but we still hold a significant amount of pain between us that needs working on." Justin looks at me; I swallow hard.

"I know how important reuniting with a special person is. I'm happy you're at least starting the process," Blake touches Justin's hand and smiles at me. The ex-crystal queen responsible for Ted's almost-demise is our trusted resident sweetheart. Go figure.

"Thanks, Blake," Justin smiles genuinely.

"Sorry if this comes off selfish, but where does this leave the rest of us?" Theodore, ever the voice of reason.

"I mean, can we stop with the code names, secret meetings, and walking on eggshells? I feel like a closeted senator."

"Of course, Ted," Justin nods at the awkward request. "I want to apologize for our behavior. We dragged you all through our shitty, _private_ drama, forcing you to lie and segregate." Justin looks on the verge of tears. "It was ugly, immature and inconsiderate. I'm so sorry."

Debbie gets up to console him. "Oh, Sunshine, we never broke up with you! We love you both the same, and everytime you two declare war, we simply shuffle our feelings around until it's over." Debbie combs Justin's hair and kisses his forehead.

"Gee, thanks for the sympathy, Deb." I roll my eyes.

"Hey! Watch those eyes! Now, I've stood back and kept my mouth shut," Debbie's violent red nail threatens us, "but, for the life of me, I can't figure out why you boys can't stop goddamn running and just love each other!

"I hope I live long enough to see you walk down the aisle—hell, I'll even settle for the snack ailse down at 'Phil Me Up Groceries'!"

"Ma, you'll outlive everyone in this room. You have nothing to worry about," Mikey responds; we all nod in agreement. Debbie's guilt tripping is familiar to all adults present.

"I have to check the oven," Ben hands Nomine over to Debbie.

"Yeah, yeah, make fun of the old lady. I'm wiser than I look." Debbie smiles at the yawning baby in her arms. "You know I'm right, right sweetheart?"

"I agree with Deb on one thing, though: you two have _it_ —that time tested Teflon love measured in reality, not rose petals—and _it_ is worth fighting for," Ted pipes up.

"Yeah, and breaking up over other men prevents you from enjoying all you built together—trust me, I know." Melanie can really push you when she wants. Damn lawyers.

"Neither of us cheated!" Justin defends. Melanie shrinks at his harsh tone.

"What exactly happened then? I don't think we ever got the story," Lindsay inquires.

"I moved to New York," Justin shrinks into the couch. "Our dynamic couldn't adjust to us living in separate states—sometimes countries—reducing everything to hurried visits between business trips.

"Brian and I were _finally_ tasting the dreams we worked so hard to achieve since…forever. Bigger clients, bigger budgets, bigger fame—the growth was phenomenal. Quitting our careers wasn't an option," Justin's smile falters, "so, we quit us, instead. There was no other way. Hardest thing I ever did." Justin ends with a defeated shrug. He looks my way, but the live emotions make me look away. Words unsaid are the ones that hurt the most.

"I'm glad you're coming to your senses. As long as you're happy, we'll support whatever 'relationship lifestyle' you choose." Mikey grins at me. His relaxed attitude seems forced though.

"Ancient cultures emphasized healing the spirit, in order to live fulfilled. We've all been rooting for you both to have that closure," Ben adds.

Justin looks touched; he better not start crying…again.

"Hell, I've kept the second week in June—the most popular time for weddings, as you know—free, every year, waiting and wishing and hoping you misters would call and say, 'Emmett, we're fixin' to git hitched! Pick any color scheme you like!'"

While Justin drowns in the bounty of love and acceptance thrown at us, my uneasiness refuses to budge.

"Well, return your bridesmaid dress, Emmy-Lou—that ship has iceberged." My words target Justin, but the whole room seems to pick up on my intentions. Justin looks down at his lap, obviously hurt.

The front door opens, carrying in extra voices over our silence.

"Jus!" Gus drops his shopping bag, beelining to Justin, who had jumped to his feet at the sound of Gus' voice.

Justin scoops Gus' heavy body into his arms, letting his lanky pre-teen legs dangle. Having a baby must be like juicing on steroids.

"Gus." Justin closes his eyes, kissing Gus' dark hair and letting his tears fall.

My chest suddenly tightens.

Lindsay perches her chin on Mel's shoulder, watching our son reunite with his "Jus". The whole gang looks like a low-budget Kleenex ad.

"Sorry for getting you all wet, buddy," Justin wipes his own tears off Gus' face, once he's back on the ground. "I really miss hugging you."

"It's cool, Jus. I missed you, too," Gus smiles too much like me. "Jen-Jen bought me that game I told you about! You are so done later."

"Don't be so sure." Justin laughs, bending to kiss Gus' head.

Jennifer and Molly grab quick hugs from Justin and fawn over the baby. Taking their bags to the kitchen, they catcall, "Hi, Brian," with matching, all-knowing smiles. Not them, too.

"Hey, JR! Can I get my hug?" Justin opens his arms.

"Yep! And Joe wants a hug, too!" Jenny Rebecca bounces into Justin's arms, planting a loud smooch on him.

"Is this Joe?" Justin sits JR on his hip, pointing to the worn blonde Barbie in her hand—a hand-me-down from Gus.

"Yep. She's tired from buying stuff, but says 'hellooo'."

"Well, hellooo to you too, Joe. That's a special name for a girl."

"Because sometimes she feels like a boy," JR explains. "Mama said this lady in court was tras-ginger, and this man wanted her kids because she wasn't a boy."

"She won, though, Becky. Remember? I told you how laws make sure transgender parents can't ever lose their babies because of who they are," Melanie reminds her daughter. JR nods.

"My client's husband filed for divorce, after ten years and three kids, because she wanted to start transitioning into a woman," Melanie explains. "The pig said their kids needed a ' _normal_ gay man, not an unstable sicko.' The judge fined him for perjury and misuse of the courts, reminding him sexual orientation has no relevance in custody cases!"

"I'll keep Joe safe. She can keep her babies in my room," JR assures us.

Justin kisses JR's temple. "Joe is so lucky. You are a very very good friend!"

JR finally sees Nomine. "Jussy, is that your dolly Granny Debbie's feeding?" she gasps with fireball energy.

Everyone laughs.

"Sorry, Justin," Michael chuckles, "that's my bad. I've been showing Jenny the pictures from your mini-visit last month, since the kids were at camp when you came. Nomine looked impossibly tiny hence Jenny thinking she was a doll."

"Well, JR, meet Nomine, my daughter," Justin introduces them, leaning JR over to kiss the baby.

"Hellooo, Nomine! I'm JR and this is Joe!" Of course, Nomine rudely ignores her, enjoying the bottle Debbie heated up minutes ago.

"She loves you already, Jenny," Debbie tells her older granddaughter.

"Tell you what, let's get you washed up, then you and Gus can _burp_ her!" Justin suggests. JR is all about that idea and points to the kitchen.

"You were smaller than her, you know," I break Gus' awe-struck baby watching. He had squeezed in beside me earlier with a juice box after a bathroom stop. "Your diapers almost touched your neck."

"I must've been like an invisible baby, then. When JR was her size I kept thinking we'd lose her in the blankets."

"You were too cute to be invisible. Afraid I cursed you with my handsomeness, Sonny Boy."

"It's okay, Dad. I really don't mind." Wit must be hereditary, too.

Justin returns, depositing JR in Gus' lap; she squirms to get comfortable. Gus is too used to the abuse to care anymore.

Justin snaps a picture of the kids looking at Nomine. Knowing she'll finish soon, he positions them for proper burping, with Gus doing all the holding and JR as the official "Back Patter".

Debbie gently removes the empty bottle. "Here she comes, sweeties."

"Uncle Brian," JR rests her doll in my lap, "you hold Joe. I need my hands to burp." I can't help but smile at her front-teeth-less-ness and try to eat her chipmunk cheeks.

The scene of pure innocence our youngest members exude melts everyone in viewing distance; "ooh"s and "aww"s chorus throughout. Justin's busy recording it all on his phone, snapping stills at specific points.

"The future generation of Liberty Ave," Emmett smiles with his chin in his hand

"Not quite, Em," Jennifer solemnly corrects. "One of them lives _way_ in New York City with her selfish father."

"Mom, it's an one hour flight," Justin reasons.

"Fine. Move back home and fly a hour to work. I'm comfortable with that compromise," she quips. "At least my grandchild will grow up around her family."

"You see her all the time, Mom."

"Damn video chat," Jennifer rolls her eyes. "You kids would replace oxygen with technology, if you could. Babies bind through touch, Justin."

"At least she's not in Chicago, like Molly— _seven hundred_ miles away," Justin throws his sister under the bus.

"Hey! College is exempted. Besides, I always visit," Molly sticks her tongue at Justin, then kisses her Mom's cheek.

"Jen, they all return eventually," Debbie reassures her friend, gesturing around the packed room for proof.

"Um, Deb? You do know most of us just never left…" I point out.

I rise from the couch and pass off Joe to Lindsay, just as Nomine spits up white goop. A well placed burp cloth saves Gus' shoulder.

"Aww…from the mouths of babes," I snort at the kids' wrinkled away faces.

\---  
I step out into the backyard, hit by the blinding sun and humidity. Thank God Debbie caved four years ago to us renovating her house. Today would've been death without central air, just like every summer here as a kid was. Not a section of "Memory Lane" I care to revisit.

"Hey, old man."

I enter Carl's grilling zone, draped in fun breezy umbrellas, all wicker furniture—a dealbreaker for Debbie—and a surround sound flatscreen—Carl's dealbreaker.

"Brian! What a nice surprise!" he wraps me in an easy bear hug. He smells like charcoal, seasonings, beer, and aftershave that was probably discontinued in the eighties.

"Can't resist my secret sauce, huh?" he jokes, mopping globs of said sauce on a row of browning drumsticks.

"Carl, you flirt!"

I lay out on the hammock under the ceiling fan, feeling the excess heat and smoke blow away from my body.

"Debbie must be beside herself that you came. Everyone under the same roof."

"You know your wife well. She's under kidnap surveillance with the baby, though."

I walk to the oak refrigerator, pull out two icy beers and open them. Carl finishes his previous beer, before taking the one I hand him.

"I do know her. I also know you're escaping whatever's going on in there," Carl full bottle points to the house.

"My past."

"I see," Carl nods. "Well, your past already happened, so you know what to expect. Second time might even be the charm."

"Not with a messy future it won't." I swallow half my bottle. "A lot's changed with me and Justin," I lament. "Random tricks and the occasional health scare use to be our only strain—now we're dodging atomic bombs.

"Long distances, demanding businesses, outside relationships, distrust, family pressures, failed hopes...Nomine!" Carl slides another beer in my hand. "I'm supposed to kiss it all better because we chatted a bit, and ignore the Pandora's _storage unit_ of shit left to open…" I chug my beer, hoping it will clarify my life.

"You still love Justin."

I nod. "I hate him, too," I sigh.

"You know, Justin's been barreling into my life since seventeen—changing rules without my permission. _Just_ when I'm ready to write him off and go back to normal, he pops up on my doorstep... with a baby! Who does that?"

"Men— _we_ do that," Carl answers confidently. "You know what it's like. When we're sorry and head-over-heels, we do crazy stuff. Justin's one of a kind, but he's still a man."

"Well, not this man." I swing the hammock, looking out in Debbie's garden. "I cut my losses and move on. No baggage. No regrets. No 'let's be pen pals!'."

Carl laughs. "You can never be free of Justin. You boys are as tangled up as you were when I first met you."

"No, it's—" I try to protest.

"Different. I know. You already told me." Carl laughs. "I was a detective longer than you've been alive—I witnessed enough second chances taken away.  _Always_ take second chances. Welcome the babies and other boyfriends and blah blah—they're what make life memorable. Make the changes work."

"I can't," I admit. "Loving him brings too much hurt now."

"Pain and confusion expire—you're grieving. One day, after all the secrets are out, and the clouds clear, Justin will be standing there, looking at you, and you'll see him, and you'll know every step was worth taking."

"Until then, I have to fight my urge to either snap his neck or suck his cock every time I see him?"

"Well…yeah."

"Carl, my man, you should keep office hours." I polish off my beer. I'm not even buzzed.

"Oh, no. That's Debbie's turf," Carl shakes his head. He adds the cooked meat to one of the already loaded platters. "She'd put a hit out on me if she knew I knew stuff about you boys she didn't know I knew."

"She knows. Debbie senses when we hold back intel and makes us come clean. You're our favorite non-gay _male_ Yoda, though."

"Brian, I married Debbie—I'm gayer than you."

I laugh for what feels like the first time in ages.

\---  
Thirty minutes later, dinner is in full swing.

Food runs from end to end: burgers, salads galore, ribs, Ben's veggie spring rolls, chicken, lasagna Debbie made as a "side dish", fruity iced teas I can tell Emmett mixed.

I taste everything, but eat nothing—except maybe a few ribs drenched in sauce. An extra bill from my trainer is a small price for Carl's badass barbecuing.

Every mouth—except Nomine's, who's curled up, asleep, in Carl's arm—moves with food and lively conversation. I rest my arm across Gus' chair and take it all in, savoring the cheap scotch I dug out a secret cabinet.

"Kids," Lindsay addresses Gus and JR, "what do you think about spending Rosh Hashannah at Britin, with Jus and Brian?"

My eyebrows peak at a smiling Justin.

"Yay!" JR cheers. "Can the baby come, too?"

"Yeah, she's kind of stuck with me," Justin answers. "Is that okay?"

"Yep! Just no more diapers or pukies, okay Jussy?" The adults chuckle. Nomine's pre-dinner surprise sent curious JR running out the bathroom.

"Hmm, I'll see what she says."

"Can we go-kart?" Gus' interest stops his rapid potato salad inhalation.

"Of course. Anything you and your sister want," Justin confirms.

"But, you have to finish all your vacation homework first," Melanie disciplines. "Mommy and I will drop you off Tuesday evening."

"Aren't you happy, Dad?" Gus must notice my silence; he's so fucking intuitive.

"Are you kidding, buddy? I love having you guys over. Never doubt that," I look Gus in the eye. Being a father is the only part of my life that gets better with age.

"Justin, a word?" I get up from the table and head to the back door.

I know Justin's following without having to look back. I feel worried eyes tracking us, then hear Jennifer's polite distraction, "So, Debbie, they were out of those ladybug dessert plates. I got floral print, instead. The place was a madhouse!"

\---  
"When were you gonna run this grand idea by me?"

Justin looks taken aback by my approach. "I didn't think—"

"One thing we agree on." I light a cigarette and lean into the deck railing.

"Okay, what's your problem? You have been snipping at me since we arrived."

"I work, you know," I tap the ashes. "Chain store Christmas ads premiere next month; I got Kinnetik branches in overdrive, worldwide. Britin was only for the weekend."

"So leave. Cancel Christmas. What do you want from me?" Justin grows frustrated.

"I don't want the kids dragged into this shit show!" Pent up rage from constant uncertainty exits my mouth.

"I'm not harming them, you asshole! They need this! I'm only here another week—two, tops—and want some quality time with them."

"It's too soon. Bringing me here was a mistake—it solved _nothing_!"

"What about all that talk about you being there if I needed you?" Justin bites out. "You said who we are can't change what we were. _You_ said that!"

"Well I take it back!" I shout. "I should've never let you in—we're _exes_ , not friends!" All of Carl's sage advice from less than a hour ago promptly dissipates.

Justin quietly glares into my angry face. "I'm sorry you feel that way. Brian, you don't have to forgive me for my part in our breakup—it's your prerogative—but you damn sure don't get to decide if I forgive myself.

"Gus and JR are coming at six, Tuesday evening—you can lie about your absence in person. You owe them that.

"Have fun at the loft. You know where I'll be." Justin turns and walks into the house.

Through the window, I see him plaster on his brave face, accepting a spoon of ice cream Emmett holds to his mouth, like we didn't just tear into each other.

I drop back my head and blow a smoke signal to the universe, begging for a quick death.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

I walk into Britin Tuesday evening to the sounds of Justin and the kids on the deck, having a jolly good time. Sunday's showdown seems to only be lingering with me.

"Where's Uncle Brian, Jussy?" I overhear JR ask. Small children have a knack for prying open messy situations.

"I'm not sure, JR. He's busy, I guess." The disappointment in Justin's tone cuts me deep. He won't even say my name.

"But, it's vacation!"

"J-Becks, Dad's not here because he and Jus had a fight. Right Jus?"

"Gus…don't worry your sister like that."

"It's true, isn't it? I heard Mom and Mama saying that's why Dad stormed out Sunday, after you guys went outside."

"Well…"

I take Justin's pause of discomfort as my cue to step out of hiding.

"Something smells high in mercury," I walk outside.

Justin's head whips around in surprise. "Brian!" He clears the high pitch from his voice, "You're here."

"Un-cle Br-ian!" JR sings, as she jumps in my arms.

"Hey, Dad," Gus walks over from the pool for his hug and customary head kiss.

"The kids are here; where else would I be?"

"I just figured—"

"Uncle Brian, do you know the baby can't eat shrimp?" JR tells me in shock.

I gasp for JR's sake. "Why not? Is she an animal activist?"

I laugh at her "puzzled Melanie" look. "I'm not sure. Jussy, is Nally-May an animal activist?"

"It's pronounced _nuh-mi-nay_ , sweet-pop, and she can't eat food because she has no teeth. She gets her nutrients from the milk I feed her." Justin explains, holding the grilling tongs.

"Ohh. I know what nutrients are! Mr. Lance showed us on _The Magic School Bus_!"

"I'm jealous!" I kiss JR's temple and sit in her abandoned chair. She picks up her marker to finish coloring the castle from my lap. To my left, Justin is cooking as if I never arrived.

Nomine's car seat sits beside us on the table. She's as active as newborns get, fidgeting and drooling.

"What? No 'hello' for your old friend?" I hold the baby's foot.

"She can't talk. Duh, Uncle Brian," JR concludes.

"At least I didn't think she could eat shellfish," I pick up a marker to fill in the prince's tights.

"Jus, is dinner ready yet? I'm dying over here!" Gus shouts from near the deep end, wading his feet in the water.

Justin stirs the pot and tastes. "The rice is done! Come wash your hands and help set the plates!"

"Finally!" Gus rushes past us, into the kitchen.

"Go let Gus help you at the sink, Squirt," I lower JR to the ground. "Your sister's behind you!" I update Gus.

The tension thickens the moment JR exits over the threshold; it's as if we're both out here alone. Justin busies himself in taking the rice pot off the side burner and piling grilled shrimp and vegetables on a serving platter.

I stare at Justin's back, wanting to say all the right words. His stiff posture tells me I'm somewhat unwelcomed in my own house. I can't blame him, but I also can't apologize; it _is_ best for us to acknowledge our badly burned bridges and move on.

I clear the table of JR's artistic efforts, and wet a rag at the bar to wipe it down. Nomine doesn't mind me lifting her seat to wipe under it.

The kids return, laden with dinnerware.

"Here," JR hands me a stack of plates. "Gus said I'm too little to carry glasses," she huffs.

"Because you are," Justin smiles and pecks her cheek.

Justin rests the food in the center and sits next to Gus. Taking JR's plate, he builds a small yellow rice volcano with shrimp lava shooting out the top. A forest of asparagus stalks and zucchini sticks finish the scene. He's even brilliant with food art.

"Cool! Thanks, Jussy!" JR excitedly kneels in her chair, eager to dig her fork in.

"You're welcome. I want you to eat up for me, okay?"

JR nods and dunks a jumbo shrimp in dipping sauce.

\---  
Over dessert, Gus pipes up. "Dad? Jus? Do you guys hate each other, again?" I knew he was too quiet during dinner.

Justin sighs at the replay attack from earlier. I put down my spoon and sit up, a signal to Justin that I will handle it.

"Do _you_ think we hate each other?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"'Cuz you haven't said anything to each other all night. You can't even look at Jus right now."

"That's because we're excited about you and your sister staying here. We want to hear more about school and your friends and stuff like that," I deflect.

"My friend Suzie got a bike for her birthday, but she can't ride it yet," JR shares.

"J-Becks, it's a trap. They already know all that stuff; they're using us to hide behind the truth," Gus warns his sister.

"I see you have your mothers' psychoanalytical paranoia."

"Dad, just answer the question." Why did I raise my son to speak his mind? That shit always backfires.

I meet Justin's eyes, feeling his uncertainty in my answer. "Gus, Justin and I don't hate each other. Sometimes caring too much about someone hurts, so it helps to stay apart."

"For how long, though?"

"Till it stops hurting."

Justin looks away and swirls caramel around his plate.

"But that could be forever! You just came back!" Gus turns to Justin.

"Hey, I'll always come back," Justin jumps in, fearing Gus will think the worst. "You'll come to New York, and we'll still talk all the time. It won't be like last time, guys. I promise." Justin's smile diffuses another potential meltdown.

"You know that your Dad and I both love you two, right?" Gus and JR nod somberly. "No matter what goes on between me and him, our love for you never goes away."

"So why can't you just do that for each other then, and not break up? One day you're gonna leave and I'll never see you ever again!" Gus takes off into the house, slamming the patio door behind him.

"Gus!" Justin calls out.

As Justin stands to go after Gus, Nomine cries for his attention. A quick look to my left says JR senses the bad energy—even though parts of the argument went over her head—and is about to deconstruct.

"Stay here with the girls. I'll check on Gus," I tell Justin. He holds a brave front as he occupies my vacant seat beside JR, to tend to her and the baby.

\---  
"The thousands we wasted redecorating your bedroom should've been spent on the media center; it's always your first choice for refuge."

I step into the dark room, cutting in front of the bright cinema screen. Digital shadows of high speed cars cover my face when I sit in the leather recliner next to Gus'.

"Wow! Is this _Death Chase IV_? It makes _Death Chase III_ look like _Pac-Man_."

Gus ignores me and stares ahead, pressing and clicking his thumbs on the controller in rapid fire.

"I wish my son would talk to me, instead of storming off at dinner."

_On screen, a man throws a woman from her car, at gunpoint._

"I wish my son wasn't angrily blaming me for everything that hurts him, and saw how very sorry I am he's in pain."

_The man drives down the wrong side of the road, shooting at the police._

"I wish my son knew his other dad and I have our own issues to work on, and, even though it's scary and might take a long time to fix, he has to know we're constantly thinking about how he and his sister feels."

_The man zooms into a convenience store parking lot, where he jumps out and goes on foot._

"I wish my son knew that people don't need to live next-door to keep loving him."

_The man tries car-jacking another man._

"I wish my son understood he's the most important guy in my life, and that I hope he still loves me."

_The man is surrounded by cop cars and shot to death._

Gus pauses the game and drops his controller. I see his bottom lip quiver and pull his upper body to my chest.

"I want it like it was! I miss him, Dad!" Gus cries in my shirt. My heart rips with every gasping whimper he makes.

"Shh. I know you do, Sonny Boy," I rub Gus' back and rest my cheek on his head, "Everyone misses Justin." I mentally add myself to that list for a couple reasons.

Gus cries a few more minutes, settling down to shaky breaths and sighs. His face stays buried, though. "Do you miss him like us?"

Should I answer that? I won't lie to my son, but I'm afraid of revealing too much he'll misunderstand. "I miss the good times," I admit, "but I know they're mine forever—just like you're forever Justin's son. Nothing changed, you just have to reach farther. That make sense?"

Gus nods his head against me. I reach for the tissues I keep nearby—I like watching my grown-up movies on the big screen sometimes—and force Gus out of hiding, to clean his face in the screen-light. Gus will never be too old to cry in my arms and have me wipe his nose after; it's a parent thing.

"You sure Jus won't forget about me and J because of the baby?" Gus asks sheepishly. I think we found the button that kept getting pushed.

"What?" I hold him under his chin, "That's crazy—you guys were his babies first! As Nomine's big brother and sister, you two have to help Justin raise her into a great demon-child! He's depending on you." I smile.

Gus chuckles and hugs me. "Sorry I was a jerk, Dad. I didn't mean to be, but I was really upset."

"You feel better now that you got some stuff out?"

"I guess. I mean, I still want Jus to move back home, but it'll be cool having a second home in New York City!" Gus lights up.

"It certainly is cool," I rake Gus' hair. "But, promise me you'll talk about this stuff whenever you're upset: to me, or Justin, or your moms—even JR. Don't hold it in anymore."

"I don't want to make you sad, though," Gus responds.

"Me? Sad?" This kid must be confused.

"Yeah. Grandma Deb said your heart's broken and hearing us say Jus' name makes it break more."

"Well Grandma Deb drinks too much ten dollar wine, so ignore her."

"I love you, Dad," Gus hugs me the way he does when we have serious father-son moments.

"I love you more and more everyday, Sonny Boy," I kiss his head.

"Is there room for two and a half more?"

I look to the door and find Justin holding Nomine, JR pulling on his hand.

"Why don't you come in and find out?" I invite.

Gus and I slowly straighten ourselves out, while Justin sits at his other side.

"Gussy, you didn't finish your dessert, so Jussy put it in the fridge," JR stands between Gus' knees.

"We're good now?" Justin turns to Gus, but he could honestly be talking to either of us.

"Yeah. You gotta visit like everyday, though," Gus smiles.

Justin kisses Gus' forehead. "I think I can manage that."

Justin looks at me over Gus' head and stalls a bit. I want to share in his relief, but know that nothing with us is settled. I'm not Gus and he's not my dad.

"Now, JR has requested we watch _The Little Mermaid_ before bed," Justin announces.

Ignoring our groans—I've seen this half-fish bimbo enough times to hate her—and JR's offended protests about "Ariel's pretty hair" and singing " _unda da sea!_ ", Justin hands Gus a drool cloth and a sleeping Nomine, then lifts JR to cuddle in his lap. He selects the movie from our overstocked download library, and we all get close and comfortable for the underwater adventure.

"Yay!" JR squeals as the bright, 3D fish and bubbles float in her face.

I forbid myself to look beside Gus, or even think of how normal and right this makes me feel. It'll just make the week go by slower.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

Forty days after Justin's visit, he's back in The Big Apple and I'm left recuperating in The Pitts.

The imprint of a "Justin invasion" is irreversible. It triggers daily attacks of past arguments and longings for love lost. My free time is a never-ending cycle of the "What if…?"s:

_What if Justin and I had tried harder?_   
_What if I gave Justin a second chance?_   
_What if I had found someone else before he did?_   
_What if Nomine was our baby?_

All the energy spent purging Justin from my life is now used to pretend he's not inching his way back into his old space; pretending every other brain cell doesn't scream ' _Justin! Justin! Justin!_ '

"Justyn—" Cynthia intercoms over my obsessive thoughts.

"That fucking twat!"

"Uhh… Justyn Dimleck? Dimleck's Surgical Group in Houston? I messaged you three minutes ago."

"I got distracted."

"Yeah, and my guess is by a gorgeous blonde that isn't me."

"Line one?" I sigh.

"Line nine, Crazy-in-Love," Cynthia laughs.

I'd fire her, but she'd never leave.

\---  
Turns out Dimleck wants to test his company's luck in the popular "vacation augmentation" industry. Facelifting trashy basketball players' wives a couple thousand bucks from broke isn't as enticing as foreign dignitaries and royalty treating themselves to a little off-shore nip-tuck during the holidays.

Days after the call, my Art Director, Global Advisor, and myself fly to Dimleck's Texas office.

A personal chauffeur drives us from our jet's steps straight to the conference room—Kinnetik staff is paid to think innovative ideas, not nap off jet lag in a hotel.

\---  
"I am finally fed up with plastic surgery in America; it's become a pastime for porn stars," Dimleck grimaces. "I didn't hustle through med school to pump watermelon tits on some STD carrier."

His class overwhelms me. "Nothing like the old 'implant half full' attitude."

I hold out my hand to Jeff for the images his team of Kinnetik artists drafted. "Our vision for your ad," I rest the mock-ups on Dimleck's lap, "is timeless beauty. It serenades the modern woman of importance, who leads demanding public and private lives, but can afford to keep her best face forward.

"Frame one shows a run-down woman in a foreign backdrop. Next, she's lounging in your secure outpatient villa, face adorned in a jeweled masquerade mask. The last frame takes her back to her homeland, looking new enough to be her own daughter."

Dimleck scans the boards, nodding and humming impressed sounds.

"Your target audience plans their Christmas destinations in November. We'll have to push all the upscale European, Asian, and African lifestyle mags, to properly introduce your surgical practice. It's already late October, so our deadline will be urgent."

I sit back and wait for the sure order.

"I don't know…"

That's not right.

"Where are we losing you?" I cross my legs. If he questions our international expertise, I'll let Sasha jump in and explain our continental sales, in Korean. Being raised on an Idaho farm didn't stop her from speaking twenty languages.

"It's definitely high society, but we're looking for a more _implied_ message."

"More discretion," I think aloud. Jeff waits, software at the ready, to orchestrate whatever I spew.

The answer jumps out the blue.

"Art."

Dimleck's eyes relax, intrigued.

"Desires expressed in abstract, through the universal language of the wealthy."

"Yes…yes!" Dimleck grows excited. Gotcha!

Jeff pulls samples of traditional Impressionist works, but I forsee them being too heavy for this ad. "Give me something modern," I look at Dimleck while instructing Jeff.

"Modern?" Dimleck gets on the computer behind his desk. "I was hoping you'd say that!"

Usually my clients leave concept construction to Kinnetik, but I encourage their personal additions, to help brand identity.

The moment my eyes recognize the familiarly complex artwork on the screen, I know my handcrafted French boots are in deep shit.

"Marvelous isn't it?" Dimleck fauns. "It's by Justin—"

"Taylor," we say in unison.

Dimleck laughs. "Of course you know who this is—you're in marketing and he's everywhere! You must get requests to use him ad naseum."

Dimleck is a newer client; by time he hired me, Justin was long gone. I have no interest in filling him in on my racy back-story.

"I've certainly _used_ him."

"Even better."

"Are you sure he's what you want?"

"Of course!"

"Taylor's on fire; it'll cost you untold fortunes," I try deterring Dimleck's insistence.

"Brian…fuck the fortune." Dimleck takes his glasses off. "An original Justin Taylor pays for itself. Lipo and dental work on the Queen's ugly grandkids alone will cover the expenses!" Dimleck nearly licks his lips.

"Even nobility has its flaws," I joke to hide my anxiety.

"So, it's decided…you'll hire me Justin Taylor!" Dimleck grins.

"Or die trying." I loosen my tie and accept Jeff and Sasha's pity.

\---  
Doubt.

It's an emotion I usually leave my success to intimidate before it festers. This method works, unequivocally, for every facet of my life—except Justin. I can never get one up on the boy!

From the lamppost, Justin's forced me to understand the man I present to the world, all from a place of intentional honest love no one else—except the kids—offers me as unwavering. Now, I'm returning to those same lessons he taught me, to gain something from him, and I'm in turmoil.

Justin's ambiguous role in my life harbors this conflict because he's more than an ends…he's the means. He and I are standing at multiple crossroads, sending our mixed signals, and I worry I might fuck up and disregard the huge 'STOP' sign. That, one day, I'll look across the damn street and see the only man capable of being my partner; strong enough to match me toe-to-toe; worthy of co-fathering my son; smart enough to equal my brilliance. I'll see the man I _miss_ , instead of the twelve car pile-up he naturally comes with.

The pressure of a sure deal sealing my fate, I sit in my penthouse suite, and let the walls inch closer on my head. No one enjoys calling the man that left too soon to ask for a favor.

Using the room phone—in case my number gets pushed to voicemail—I take the plunge.

"Hello?"

"Thats it? No business greeting? I could've been a potential client."

"I consider anything on my cell-phone personal, and my sex hotline operates on weekends only."

I close my eyes to settle my nerves, but Justin's voice is everywhere.

" _Is_ this personal?"

"Not technically; I need your consultancy."

"That's rich!"

"I plan on making sure we'll all be."

"Brian, why would you need my help? Last I checked, your entire art department graduated Brown _summa cum laude_. I'm sure they can color in a box of Cornflakes."

Am I sweating? "They will once you draw the cereal box."

"Wait…you want to _commission_ my art?"

"Not me, my client," I correct. "His campaign will be published to an exclusive overseas niche, and he personally demanded your work."

"Who's your client?"

"That's privileged information."

"Brian, you're famous enough to know that all secrets are illusions. I can find out anything."

"Advertising is more guarded than Special Ops—why do you think I arm myself every Super Bowl season? The risk of you fleeing to competitors is too high to leak my sources uncommitted."

"I'd never do that to you," Justin softly defends.

"No one is above company policy, Justin."

"God bless HR," Justin breathes.

Reading Justin's silence over the phone, I sense he's fishing for hidden meaning behind my request. "This has nothing to do with us, Justin."

"Reciting that HR script, again?"

"No, that's straight from the desk of the CEO." I know he hears where I'm coming from.

I decide to tie a bow on this deal before Justin sirens me out to dangerous waters. "Look, Justin, global markets are notorious art havens. You're too bright to not jump on this and cement your name."

Truth is, Justin's work already has a strong international following; he knows it and I know it. They're waiting for him to formally open the doors, and I'd give my jerk-off hand to be the man behind that premiere.

"Thanks, but I only take insincere advice from my friends and family. If I agree to this, it's going to cost you."

In sales, we call those "buying words"; they're music to my salesman ears. "I assure you Kinnetik is prepared to respectfully reimburse you."

"Brian, don't insult me; I'm not in this for money."

"You kids and your consciences…"

"I want exclusive first dibs on all _Kinnetik World_ project designs."

"Is this a symptom of post-partum depression?"

"It's a fair deal."

Must he choose _this_ moment to practice the manipulative techniques I've taught him?

"Said Hitler to the Polish."

"Justin, that's not happening. You get a signed blank check and two-line 'About the Artist' footnote for your troubles."

"People already know about me. What they want is my art."

"A lot of cocky for a regional sensation."

"You mean national sensation. Who, by the way, you already promised your client you could hire." Don't remind me. "What would they think if you couldn't pull me?" I should pull a gun to my head next time.

"Let's say your obvious insanity is plausible, I have hired staff to create all our masterpieces. You can't possibly replace an entire department."

"Consider me a valuable addition to the Kinnetik family. I'll compose the plan, but collaborate with the other artists on staff; I'm not looking for a tribute to my work.

"I'll impose a ten percent limit on your annual intake, ensuring ninety percent of the glory produced for _World_ won't be identified as my creations. Add the increase in notoriety I'm sure to cause, and your staff won't suffer workload shortage until retirement."

"How considerate of you. But before you start choosing stuffed animals and naked baby pics for your cubicle, I need assurance you can meet my client's needs. I must see finished work, preferrably publically undisplayed, by Thursday, to meet holiday deadlines."

"That's in two days!"

"I've performed under tighter circumstances. Can't handle it?"

"Always up for a challenge; the bigger the better. Any particular style?"

"Abstract expressionist—resolved moods; lots of colors and emotional transitioning."

" _If_ we have an agreement, I'll send you the digital portfolio for my private vault. There're a number of selections you can glance at."

"Let the record show you are letting personal matters affect your career."

"Yeah, by improving it."

"Fine. Make sure I get your portfolio, and don't make any plans next week; it's going to be hectic."

"I look forward to building a productive relationship… with your agency, Mr. Kinney. Check your email, I sent the file five minutes ago."

\---  
By Friday evening, the three focal pieces were chosen. Due to an unconventional deal, all featured art becomes Dimleck's personal property, post ad production, leaving him the owner of a very rare collection.

It took major restraint for Dimleck to not colonize Justin's entire private collection, but after hours of hyperventilating and second-guessing he finalized his choices. Now, the day after, we're on my plane heading to New York at Justin's insistence to treat his special fan.

"What's he like, in person I mean? Oh, I must sound like a silly groupie!"

Dimleck's unraveling amuses me. There's something surreal about people worshipping the man you've witnessed eating cereal with chocolate milk, donning only a pair of generic tube-socks. "I don't want to spoil your image of him, but he's actually a lot shorter."

"God! My hands are sweating! I forgot to remind Thad about my collagen injections at the office, yesterday." Dimleck clutches his handkerchief to absorb the minor dampness.

"Justin's a pro at handling slippery things. You'll be fine."

I leave Dimleck to ponder that useless point as I will myself to not relieve my jitters in the airsickness bag Charles keeps on board for my guests.

"So, if you don't mind me asking," wait for it… "is Justin seeing anyone?" Boom! Reason Number One why I don't get chummy with clients. Damn Justin for putting me in this predicament!

I throw Dimleck an "It's complicated" and order lunch be started early. He's a huge foodie; I hope Charles stuffs him into silence.

I drink my usual libations and stay quiet until we circle the New York City skyline.

\---  
Dimleck flew home to Houston, this morning, eager to pick a spot for the new ten by ten Justin presented him as a gift: greens, tans, and blues swirling about in earthy chaos. Including the elaborate lunch date and vault tour, Justin more than made Dimleck's life.

Today's solo visit to Justin's Fifth Ave townhouse is casual, but all business; Justin has to hand over the sanctioned pieces, packaged to fly to Pittsburgh this afternoon, then take care of a folder of forms that need signing.

Justin and I share hurried smiles at the door. I step in from the brisk October autumn, removing my shoes and light wool trench-coat.

Our walk to his kitchen, at the back of the house, is a dark adventure. Every wall strangles me with mysterious paintings representing loss, fear, sorrow, and regret. The effect of selective lighting accentuates my demise from the entryway through the large ground floor.

"Contemporary Halloween; it works in an artist's house," I admire. "Very _Adams' Family_ chic."

"Thank you. My friends convinced me to make Nomine's 'first Halloween!' exciting. We're having a small after-party for The Village parade, next week."

I turn my attention to Justin's furniture, at the mention of his friends. They seem to be a major influence in a life I'm absent from. Not that I care to be present, of course…

Justin's kitchen is spacious and inviting. He clearly spends a fair amount of time in here. I sit on a tall chair at the island and accept the fresh coffee he pours me, sweetened without error. His teacup is steaming, by the sink, beside an open bottle of formula and a buttered muffin.

"Didn't mean to disrupt your morning," I gesture to Justin's cup.

"Nomine's not much for schedules," Justin rinses a rubber nipple he takes from the sterilizer. "My whole life is one big disruption, nowadays."

"Where _is_ Miss Baby Diva? Shopping at _Saks_?"

Justin laughs. "Enjoying her last peaceful minute of slumber. I'm going up to wake her for breakfast," Justin points to the ceiling. He moves to exit the double kitchen doors, but turns back to me. "Do you…maybe…want a tour? You can bring your coffee."

I look at Justin's hesitation and remember days gone by when that was code for: 'Come upstairs and fuck me a new hole.' I smirk and grab my mug, in no way happy that I made Justin happy.

\---  
Upstairs is littered with more macabre art. Black-and-whites of classic monsters marry their colored modern-day interpretations. The theme weaves into each room, where figurines and bedding continue the gloomy twist.

It may be no match for Britin—in style or grandeur—but Justin's elegant floor plan and room layouts, wrapped in urban city energy, put many bigger mansions to shame.

Nomine's room is a whimsical fairytale of vibrancy. Her curtains are dark violet and silver, tied with hay. Playful witches, Jack 'o lanterns, vampire bats, ghosts and goblins hide on her walls and dressers—even on her mobile. A framed _It's The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!_ poster, of the iconic _Peanuts_ gang in costume, anchors on the back wall.

Justin is too busy kissing his daughter's sleepy face and diaper changing to see me shake my head. "Who advised you on this room decor, Stevie Wonder?" I look at the curtains again, "Stevie Nicks?"

"Where's your sense of celebration, Brian?

"We think it looks _fang-tastically ghoul_ , don't we? Daddy can't wait to dress up his adorable black kitty!" Justin makes funny faces and noises at Nomine, but she's too fussy to be offended. I am, on her behalf.

"Watch her for me," Justin goes to clean up in the attached bathroom.

I stand over Nomine, touching my finger to her tiny palm. She's bigger, tanner, and cuter, than when I last saw her; she's even shedding her newborn wrinkles.

I see Justin left Nomine's candy-corn feetie sleeper open, and the excess cool air catching her thighs is justifiably pissing her off.

"Don't worry," I sit my empty mug on the changing table and snap Nomine's clothes together, "I won't tell a soul I saw you in this atrocious get-up."

Caving to her cries, I lift Nomine to my chest, calming her agitated wiggly whines to gurgles. Feeling her fluffy, curly afro—it must've doubled in growth!—tickle my neck, I forget who she belongs to.

Why am I gravitated towards this baby? Is it just the primal attraction everyone has to infants, or is she just unavoidably irresistible on her own?

"She remembers you," Justin smiles. He fixes the diaper tray, picks up my cup, and leads us back down his winding staircase.

\---  
Justin waits for the microwave, reading over the documents I brought him. "Any clauses in these contracts my lawyer should examine?"

"Nah, pretty straightforward stuff. Legal spelled out the appraised value and ownership rights for your three pieces of art." I balance Nomine in one arm to feed her the warm bottle Justin pushes toward me. How did this happen?

"Your blackmail role at _Kinnetik World_ , effective November First, is detailed in Articles IV thru VIII, starting on page ten. You will work remotely, but carry your fair weight. Conflicts in your main career never affect Kinnetik."

For the next seven minutes, the only sounds in the kitchen are Justin flipping papers and scribbling blue ink, and Nomine sucking her bottle. I realize how quiet this huge house must be with only the two of them.

The domestic serenity lulls me into leisure thoughts of the funny off off "off-Broadway" comedy I saw late last night, on a whim. Three goofy women rushing to snag a man and get married by thirty. My ticket was dirt cheap and they served shockingly good beer. New York never lets me down.

Justin gets my attention in time for me to burp Nomine. I find the Frankenstein blanket on my shoulder over the top, but it fits in with the lack of taste everywhere else.

" _'No concept presented by Mr. Taylor shall proceed to the development phase without explicit approval from the Chief Executive Officer and Board President.'_ Translation: Brian will veto anything he deems lame or un-sexy."

"Fucking right I will!" my hand circles Nomine's warm back. "This isn't some cliche eighties movie and you're not Molly Ringwald proving ugly chicks rule. This is a real business, earning real money, and I'm really the boss.

"I'll let you on the field because I believe you can score us major points, but I call all your plays." All of a sudden, I'm Drew Boyd.

"The movie reference made sense, but sport analogies?" Justin raises his eyebrows in judgement. "Easy, Drew Boyd." See?

Justin signs the page, then slides the finished packet across the counter. I stare at the closed folder knowing it holds dangerous power. A month ago, Justin managed to destabilize me within days of his arrival. He dredged up my old wounds and I bit him new ones. Am I ready for him in this capacity? Kinnetik is sacred, can Justin and I stay professional?

"It appears you've found room in your heart to, somehow, forgive my wicked ways, but you and I know I'm not sorry.

"I'm tired of us picking up where we leave off. If that's what you're hoping this turns into, I'll get a shredder and act like this never happened. Dimleck's paintings are already covered; there's nothing for me to lose.

"So, in one word, tell me why I'm doing this?"

I meet Justin's eyes. He's tuned into me, enticing me to show my hand. Even as my past and future fuse into a mirage of false security, I can't walk away. I'll threaten, ignore, and fight, but never disown. Justin is a permanent section of me, and I'm almost not sure it's unpleasant.

Justin watches Nomine's chest rise and fall, in my arm. "Opportunity," he answers.

I nod.

"Company meetings are Mondays, at nine; art department meets Thursday,s at one. I suggest Junior Sunshine, here, not come.

"IT will forward your online welcome package and tutorial within seventy-two hours."

Cradling his sleeping daughter, I shake Justin's hand, officially stepping off the cliff.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

_All in for Aladdin!_  read the front page headline after Babylon's "Arabian Knights" Halloween bash. Our imported Middle Eastern go-go boys kicked up their curl-toe genie slippers and jewel-studded cock-burqas, persuading party people to dance, drink, and fuck with Satan well into the dawn of the new month. We grossed in the high five-figures that night. Evil is, by far, my most reliable revenue stream.

October soon gave birth to November, welcoming Black Friday ad debuts, last minute Christmas campaign adjustments, out of town business meetings, Justin's Kinnetik arrival, and multiple family obligations. Add in the plethora of cultural holidays my clients in other countries order December ads for, and my reasons for drug abuse should be very clear.

The staff at Kinnetik was much too eager to welcome the sensational Justin Taylor in joining their proud ranks. After a series of too many avant-garde and ill-fitting boards drifting across my desk, though, I had to firmly remind my artists they aren't paid to be Justin's disciples and piss off clients. I followed up with a warning to their "Jesus" in question, to leave his Yoko Ono tendencies in New York, and stop influencing my employees to reinvent Santa. A scene of the North Pole under water, due to global warming of the ice caps, isn't how "The Christmas Village" in Norway wants to attract kids. Damn artists…

Cynthia waltzes in, swinging a canvas bag. She activates the LCD privacy screensaver for my glass walls, then approaches my desk.

I stop in the middle of an email from an Arizona shoe retailer, and fix Cynthia with a scowl. "I told you to stop downloading that dancing turkey shit. Take it down."

"Save your threats for the interns—I'm your assistant; I'll run your life however I please." Cynthia makes room amongst my papers to unpack our lunch.

During these seasonal peaks, I'm required, by "Cynthia's Law" I suppose, to take breaks according to her intuition. Usually it's downtime for us to share meals, or gossip, or both.

I put my desktop on standby. "Come to poison me?"

"Pfft, before my Christmas bonus? I'm not that blonde.

"Sirloin or salmon?" Cynthia unveils my salad options and I roll my eyes at her pointless question. Cynthia knows her weak spot for _Romeo's_ salmon arugula predetermines my food selection.

My private place setting is waiting when I return from washing my hands. Once seated, a cut of salt-&-pepper-crusted beef is melting in my mouth, alerting me to just how starved how I was.

"Three more calls came in today about Justin's art. This place in Hong Kong even offered him an exhibit!" Cynthia announces.

People see Justin's art in our ad and assume we're in charge of him, or can at least arrange sales. Neither is true, but, as a courtesy to Justin, I allow Cynthia to forward any inquiries to his New York studio.

"Pretty and talent will get you everywhere," Cynthia concludes. I can't tell if she includes herself in that group.

"Is that so?" I brush off her statement.

"I told Justin doing Dimleck's ad was worth the foreign attention."

Which direction Justin chooses to send his career is unknown to me, but I see very enticing, but ugly, competition down the road, as the "want" and "want now" niche collectors battle over his art. People that call from any point on the globe to purchase pieces they never ask a price for, rarely play nice—I should know. I promised Justin he would take off, never said he wouldn't be sprinting.

Cynthia swigs her orange seltzer. "Yeah, plus he gets to inch his way back under you."

"Is that what you think?"

"I think you know what I know."

So much of my power to heal is directly correlated to Justin, yet discussing our past relationship re-opens too many wounds. I chew a honey-pecan and some lightly dressed spinach leaves, to detour from an unaffordable stroll down Justin Taylor Alley.

"You can't pretend forever," Cynthia warns. "Justin is real now; back from the past and all in your business. It's the perfect setup for a second shot."

I rest my fork in my bowl, leaning back in my leather chair. "Don't get it twisted, Cynthia: Nothing I want from Justin is up his ass.

"Justin is business…fantastic business, might I add. He's driving fat overseas checkbooks to beach themselves right on Kinnetik's shores. He's flooding Dimleck's appointment book in expensive rhinoplasties, and drowning himself in big commissions and possible museum tours. Once all the chains of credit lead back to me, I'll be printing si much money, I can buy a Justin _clone_ to fuck every day of the week, every time I'm feeling frisky."

"It's not just about sex. You need Justin, because he's your matching element—your missing link.

"Success rocks, but it also comes at a price, and, frankly, I'm sick of you burning out here, then schleping home to an empty bed," Cynthia shakes her head.

"My bed's not always empty," I remind Cynthia.

"Forgot about the all-perfect _Kaihautu_ , who you're still hiding from the family. Never thought I'd ever see you living on the down-low." Cynthia grumbles.

Oh fuck…Kai. Being in Fiji with his rugby team, for _World Cup_ , has completely taken him off my radar.

"Careful, Cynthia, those aren't 'thin-ice skating' Loubitons."

Cynthia slaps the back of her hand. "I shouldn't speak ill of the New Zealander. I'll behave."

I feel guilty for not thinking of how my most recent "Justinian" conquest affects Kai, but I'm happy his equally busy life pushed him to another hemisphere—far away from my ex drama. We've had the _"Justin is a guy I fucked"_ talk, and he knows about our September reunion—to an extent, but these newer developments haven't reached him, even though he calls regularly. We're not married; I don't owe him a running update of my itinerary.

"So, no chance of him gracing our continent for Thanksgiving?"

I wince. "Let's see: I'm playing innkeeper for Debbie and the tribe from Wednesday thru Sunday, during which time a _Walton's_ sized holiday dinner, midnight Black Friday shopping, Hunter's wedding, and countless chaos are all on the agenda. Not the best environment for introducing new players."

"More time to play around with an old one, then."

I shoot Cynthia a glare; she wisely raises a palm in surrender, "No more 'Justin'—message received."

Cynthia presents a small bowl of hazelnut chocolate mousse and hands me a spoon.

"How's Hunter doing? Big day's in almost three weeks."

"Fuck Hunter! _I'm_ the one bombarded by Emmett 'The Wedding Fairy' every hour, asking for wall measurements and floor colors. He thinks I'm a Britin tour guide, carrying blueprints in my damn wallet." I gulp a heavy scoop of rich mousse. I normally wouldn't indulge, but a few tablespoons might soothe my stress levels until I can squeeze in a cigarette.

Cynthia laughs. "My cousin Mallory tried roping me into bridesmaid duty, once. I told her polyester bows were against my religion, then booked a two week London shopping getaway to cleanse. Close call."

"I sometimes wonder if God gave you a vagina just to tempt me."

"If you're not married in twenty to fifty years…I'm your beard, Boss." I chuckle around my water bottle because she and I'd probably make it work.

Therein lies the beauty of the assistant that has been by my side since Moses: she can grab my balls and heart in the same hand. Under a pistol attitude and fashionable suits, lies the woman I depend on to stabilize my systems. Cynthia's my central nervous system.

\---  
Car-load by car-load, the gang descends on Britin, late as always.

In no time, these folks manage to crowd my palatial estate, in a manner which only they can: Mounds of luggage not yet taken to their respective rooms toss up the living room; common areas welcome mugs of hot chocolate and active chatter. God, living in the same community, minutes apart, and seeing each other almost daily never curbs their urge to "catch up".

Once Gus and JR warmed up, their boredom escorted them to their favorite indoor havens. Debbie, Emmett and Lindsay are banging around in the kitchen, getting pre-marinated meats, ingredients, and prepared pastries, stacked in the fridge, for tomorrow. Never a believer in meal deferment, Debbie also has pans of lasagna and garlic bread in the oven, just for tonight's consumption.

Deciding not to disturb the lions in their culinary den, or be dragged into the same discussions on politics and wedding traditions by the extra large debate team of professional know-it-alls, I cozy up beside Mikey on the couch, who's all preoccupied in his head.

"How you reckon them in-laws like they possum?" I drawl.

Mikey laughs, "Shut up! Jack and Jill aren't hillbillies.

He settles down. "They're at our house, right now. Hunter ordered Ben and I to evacuate so he could get in some 'chill time' with them before all these festivities. I hope he's using the good towels." Like mother, like son…

"I'm happy for you and Pa, and the no-trick-hustler."

"Thanks, Brian.

"And thank you for lending us your house for Saturday. I know Ma just volunteered you on the spot, but it means a lot." Mikey's doofy smile tugs at my innards. I rest his head on my shoulder, and press my chin to his hair for a minute. Getting older does have its ups.

After Hunter's announcement, Debbie promptly offered up Britin as the venue, in a fit of "Happy Grandma" shock. But what's the cost of giving the world to a kid that never should've made it safely this far into adulthood. Thanks to his papa bears' love, he'll get to marry the tattooed redhead he met his freshman year, like royalty.

"Lorri's circus family is missing out, though; they're performing in Florida now."

Oh, yeah… "I totally forgot Mrs. Baby-Hustler-to-be was a carnie!" I laugh out loud, kissing Mikey's hair to ease my joke.

"Hey! Be nice!" Mikey slaps my stomach, "My daughter-in-law is a fourth generation trapeze artist—and damn good! She left the circus because her parents encouraged her to go to college."

I shrug.

"I gotta hand it to Hunter for picking a girl he can relate to—they both did tricks for a living."

"Brian Kinney's talking tricks…I'm in the right place," I hear Jennifer's voice. She, Molly, and Justin, bracing Nomine's car-seat, stand in the foyer, bundled up against the already dark evening frost.

"Mother Taylor, anywhere I am is the right place," I smirk.

The new arrivals hug and kiss their way further into the house, then settle in—great, more luggage to clutter the floor. Jennifer irresponsibly exposes her granddaughter to the kitchen of domestic degenerates, while Molly and Justin land in a love-seat near me.

Michael sneaks off to call Hunter about cock-rings—or _cuff-links_?—when Ben is too distracted to intercept.

I turn to the young Taylors. "What took you so long? Your pilot need to work the cocaine out their system before takeoff?"

Molly chuckles.

"The baby was sleeping, and I had to get down a sketch for a Rhode Island mural I'm starting. Then, this guy from Austria called when I was leaving, wanting me to design a statue for some university in Vienna."

When it rains… "What did you tell the Austrian?"

"That I'd get back to him," Justin folds his legs under, nonchalantly.

"Well, yeah, you're not going home until Sunday, but you told him _when_ you'd get back to him, right?"

"Nooo… I said I'd get back to him."

"Don't play me dumb, Justin. Why are you turning down sure business? Is this how you're answering the people we're forwarding to you, too?"

Justin rolls his eyes at my inquiries. "I know you care, Brian, but I'm a big boy and I know what I can handle. Developing outside The States requires intense resources and planning. My primary occupation and personal life are near capacity, at the moment. That doesn't mean I'm rejecting anyone."

I know a cop-out when I hear it—my staff and clients have tried them all on me—particularly Justin's. "If you need me to, I'll let you breach your contract…"

The flash of color on Justin's face isn't a reaction to excessivs heat from the fireplace. Molly senses her brother's tension and excuses herself. Justin looks me in the eye and exhales slowly. "Brian, this isn't a discussion we're having—especially here. I'm back home, enjoying Thanksgiving and my family…you should try it."

"Spare me, Norman Rockwell. What's so new about Debbie cooking a ton of food? Every day is a holiday for her.

"Look, Justin," I lean closer, hoping empathy will work on him, "I know it's scary right now, but you have to take the jump. All those years you fought and sacrificed to be seen are finally paying off… Don't waste your big shot on local loyalty."

"I'm not afraid, Brian," Justin clips, "I'm busy. My choosing to not adhere to a timeline you prescribe doesn't make me a failure. You are a control freak!" he whispers to disguise the argument we're having in plain sight. Coincidentally, the room is loud enough to hide us.

"All part of my success. Get used to it."

"No thanks." Justin sets his jaws.

The pissed-off Justin sitting on the couch to my left inherited a lot of his qualities from my former Justin—including his attitude. There've been substantial upgrades, but being that he's fundamentally unchanged, my old notes remain useful.

I know Justin relies on kick-starts to get him past challenges. It's not a question of whether he'll win the gold—his ability and passion guarantee that—but if he'll ever self-ignite in time to join the race. Unlike me, Justin grew up as an upper-middle-class White boy, feeling entitled to the support base that cheered on his every move. When he grew up to be an upper-middle-class White, _gay_ teen, a lot of those people—Craig, teachers, society—dropped their pom-poms. By then, Justin was unfortunately too hooked on his need for their validation, that he struggled to fight alone. Folks like Debbie, myself, and the gang readily filled those vacancies, unintentionally delaying his adjustment to the truth: Anything you want, get it yourself.

"I'm signing you on as _Kinnetik World_ 's newest client. I'm personally managing your account. Send me a proposal by next Thursday, on a project abroad you plan on pursuing, so I can start promoting it."

Justin's mouth fails to close, "You can't—"

"I just did." I shrug. "Your growing rise to international fame is directly correlated to my firm and you work for me—I own you, Justin." Sometimes force is the only method Justin responds to.

"Dinner's ready!" Debbie shouts from the kitchen. Perfect timing.

\---  
Thanksgiving preparations, the next day, begin at breakfast. Debbie's in a ratty robe, chopping vegetables, and preheating ovens, and measuring liquids. Everyone's lounging in the kitchen, passing around breakfast and sporting bed-head.

Part of our longstanding tradition is de-programming Debbie, for the sake of any innocent dinner guests later.

"Whatever," Debbie refills Carl's coffee, "Lorri and her parents happen to love the way I dress."

"Even circus people have their limits, though, Deb," I pour Gus some milk, then hand the bottle to Justin who won't look at me as he takes it from my hand.

"Hey asshole, I've been styling myself since the only label you wore was Huggies!" Debbie replies to my critique.

"Ma, we're not saying change who you are," Michael sugar coats, "just tone down your accessories maybe?"

"Well, well, well, look who's found his gay fashion gene? Mr. Captain Astro bed slippers!"

We all laugh out loud. "She's got you there, Michael," Ted chimes in.

"I'd say you're all jealous. Have any of you looked in a mirror lately? You're the boringest homos I've ever seen," Debbie argues. "You look like Mormons."

"Now there's something I've never been called…" Everyone ignores me, keen on defending their lack of taste to an unforgiving Debbie.

\---  
I stand at my front window, eyes following the stretch Hummer's red tail-lights in the distance. Another Black Friday off to a start.

Every year, Debbie, and the most hardcore shoppers in our bunch, hit the midnight stores. She doesn't need to shop sales, but simply lives for the thrill, and uses the chance to stock up early on holiday gifts for The Vic Grassi House, _Toys for Tots_ , and Pittsburgh's central hospitals.

By eleven p.m., Boris, Debbie's favorite Kinnetik driver, pulls up with his wife Minka, ready to chauffeur Debbie & co. anywhere her heart desires to swipe my Black Card.

Weeks ago, the clench of Black Friday's day of judgement had my national retail clients requesting extra analyses and projections for any TV and Internet ads they had running at the time. The cultural phenomena of betting on the Friday after Thanksgiving Day is a high-stakes operation. Businesses depend on tonight's revenue to offset weak sales from their earlier ten months, and gauge upcoming Christmas spending trends. Now, in this eleventh hour, it's too late to restrategize; the consumer will decide our pay-off, and if all our plays lined up properly. What a difference a day makes.

I pour myself a drink to sip by the fire, then turn out the main lights. All over Britin, people I care about are sleeping off their holiday calories, yet I'm awake. I am the guardian of this fortress.

Thanksgiving dinner—or _gorging_ rather—was hectic and filling. The formal dining room bursted at the seams, to fit the glut of people and food. After subjecting JR to sit on a lap—kiddie tables were never our style—everyone managed a seat around the feast Deb magically created. Every edible product found on land, in the ocean, or in a chemistry lab was present; nutrition was the only absentee. Instead of grace, we individually toasted our true Mother Superior with thanks, earning ourselves a teary "little shits" and wet mascara.

I noticed Justin remained perturbed, so there was that friction between us. As expected, he wasn't too ruffled to dress Nomine as an outlandish Native American, plus feather headband, to the foolish delight of every cooing guest.

Hunter and Lorri sat under the spotlight the entire night. Their upcoming noose tying was a constant point of interest, from ceremony—Emmett; to honeymoon—Hunter; to prenuptial agreement—Mel; to joint bank accounts—Theodore; to divorce rates—me. Like seasoned pros, Lorri's parents blended under our big top of freaks.

I wish I could dwell on the good times longer, but my current "state of Justin" is shaping up to be a long-term bone of contention. The way I stepped in on Justin's turf earlier was troublingly effortless: he was screwing up and I blocked his dumb decision. Thanks to me, his life will avoid another unnecessary hiccup. I've made these moves countless times before, but now it's as if I'm trespassing. I'm aware Justin and I aren't who we could've been, but, having lived through so much life with him, he's forever built into my DNA. Isn't it natural for me to be his best hope for protection? If I've lost the rights to those claims, then who owns them now? Who's looking out for Justin if I'm not?…

I hear Justin and Molly traveling on the steps, then watch them walk by me. Their pajama bodies move eerily similar when fatigued, in that way siblings share mannerisms and no personal boundaries. Claire and I both used to do this cyclops thing when we woke up, leaving our left eyes closed for those first fifteen, or so, blurry minutes. It's one of the odd facts that died along beside her the moment she irrevocably accused me of molesting my nephew. Life as a voluntarily orphaned, only-child has been a dream come true; not sure why people find it so devastating.

Molly stops by my chair, "What are you, a ghost?"

"Boo." I swallow some whiskey.

"Come eat pie," she yawns. "It's tastes _so_ much better all stale and crusty."

I choose not to touch Molly's double entendre and trail her to the kitchen.

Justin sighs by the counter when I sit in the nook. "I refuse to serve food to him. He doesn't own a soul." Nothing personal, I'm sure…

"I'll pass on the carbed sugars and take a cup of tea. Not all of us can just let ourselves go, you know."

Justin raises his tired eyebrows, "Mol, tell your friend we're all out of poison ivy…"

\---  
I wake up on "Wedding Day" feeling an omen-like tinge of precautionary fear. As a family, we've had our fair experience with nuptials going awry. Most recently were Ted and Blake's, five years ago. There we stood, in an open field in Amish country, Dutch Pennsylvania, on a seemingly clear spring day. Theodore slid the ring on Blake's finger, they kissed, everyone cried. Then, the skies opened up and chased us into a barn! Good thing we took all those pictures beforehand. I really hope Hunter and Lorri bought flood insurance for their wedding cake.

Breakfast is really fresh fruit and juice added to Thanksgiving leftovers—a.k.a: an excuse to eat macaroni-&-cheese and roast pork at ten in the fucking morning. At the table, I enjoy my coffee and sliver of pecan pie, squeezed in beside Gus and Blake, who's very comfortably feeding Nomine a warm bottle.

Debbie, Lindsay, and Jennifer look like zombies, but are alert enough to show off their early morning shopping conquests. Most of Debbie's bulk gifts will be delivered to Kinnetik for storage, though. The rest of us listen and gasp—hey, eighty percent off is a big deal for high quality merchandise—but know full well we'd rather pay the over-marked-up regular prices than ever brave a Black Friday assault.

I notice a missing face in the crowd, "You ladies lose Emmett in a _Victoria's Secret_ stampede last night?"

"Mr. Master of Ceremonies is over at the ballroom breaking his assistants' will to live," Ted explains, posing stupid faces to Nomine in his husband's arms; Blake's laughing of course furthers Ted's antics. I'm not sure why—or _how_ —but these two have been more unusual than usual, lately.

News of Emmett already being on the clock isn't really news; he's a damn perfectionist. At least we have a commercial kitchen over there for him to twirl his wand and whip up whatever elaborate menu he planned. Only the best for Pittsburgh's best.

"I can't believe Hunter's getting married in less than six hours," Mikey laments, as a true mother-of-the-groom should. Ben kisses his shoulder when his tears start.

"Baby, it's just a formality; Lorri and her family are already our family. Besides, she and Hunter will live minutes away.

"Now, if you don't stop, you're going to be dried out before the wedding starts." Ben hands Mikey a tissue and we chuckle.

"Mike, please don't set your mother off; she's been on the verge all week," Carl begs, after a panicked look at his wife.

I sympathize, knowing one thing Novotnys do well are emotional outbursts. I gotta do my part to nip this shit early.

"Listen up all you misty-eyed tissue-clutchers," I glare at our regular culprits. I linger on Lindsay to warn that I'm onto her "ninja wailing"—all stone-faced and silent, until the telltale surprise waterworks. We also have a few—Ted, Jennifer—that are triggered by others' crying. Perverts.

"Hunter and Lorri are too young and happy for your pitiful funeral crying. Do not ruin their wedding pictures with your puffy, make-up smudged, snot-covered faces."

"Like you don't cry," Justin challenges me. Guess my eye contact privileges have been reinstated.

"Sunshine, you'll never see me cry," I smirk around my fork.

\---  
Hours later, Britin is buzzing in full frenzy.

The, formerly immaculate, grand living room rivals any backstage dressing area: a bunch of ladies in robes, wielding blow dryers, hair irons, and eye shadow.

Emmett is shouting in French at the florist, waving a bright blue rose at his videophone. Summer is clearly not invited to his warm hued fall extravaganza.

Michael looks flighty, and in desperate need of a trip to my Xanax closet upstairs.

Justin is ironing a pile of clothes a few feet from Nomine's travel bassinet.

Gus and Carl are polishing dress shoes over sheets of newspaper.

Why did they leave all these rudimentary chores for the last minute? I shake my head, but pay them no mind—adults are in charge of themselves.

I spy JR skipping from the downstairs bathroom and grab her before she can disappear. She holds my hand and spins to fluff out her dark floral skirt.

"Hey…" I try to get either of her moms' attention.

"Hey!…" No luck, again.

"Yo, bitches!" finally works, even though they look insulted. "Which of you geniuses dressed JR and left her unsupervised? She's a juice box away from a wardrobe change."

"JR, why are you wearing your dress?" Mel walks over.

"'Cuz it's the wedding, Mama, and it's pretty. I got Joe pretty, too," JR shows us Joe's tuxedo and plastic pink doll pumps.

"Sweetie, wait for Mama next time, okay? Let's get you in your robe, so Grandma can do those curls you like. I think Mommy said you can borrow a little lip gloss, too." Mel swallows the horror of the averted disaster, and walks her happy, determined daughter upstairs.

"Remember this moment, Justin. It'll be all yours in a few years," Jennifer advises her son from a place of learned experience. The room full of all-knowing parents agree heartily.

"Have you not noticed your granddaughter's flashy Cher outfits? I'm already in trouble," Justin laughs, as he displays Nomine's tiny long-sleeve dress. The life-like leaf print is obviously a color photograph of fallen leaves superimposed on velvet. Burgundy ruffled piping and touches of gold brocade work finish the dress' edges. I imagine Nomine will resemble a quaint Vermont postcard, or gilded czarina, tonight.

\---  
"Jesus Christ! It's fucking gorgeous, Em!" For once, Debbie's words need no editing—Emmett's work is jaw-dropping.

"Why thank you, Debbie!" Emmett breaks out his wide smile. "No better party than a good wedding to get the ideas hopping!"

No detail was spared. Emmett selected the lounge leading to the ballroom as the setting because it was more intimate, and it has never looked this regal. I assumed not using the, more practical, ballroom was a risky idea, since this entrance—though built enormous to accommodate hoards of guests when I host large soirées—is meant for waiting and congregating.

I'll be switching my RSVP dish to crow.

Being that we're perched high on a hill, the lounge's panoramic glass walls—a captivating feature I'm well aware of—overlook acres of open fields and trees all wrapped in their gold, red, orange, pink, and green foliage. Even a glimpse of the "beach" on the other side of the property fades into the natural scenery, and peacefully isolates us. I designed this layout in order to ensure the main house wouldn't t interference from any partying going on this side of the estate.

"What lovely flowers! It's like a palace garden," Lindsay compliments Em, delicately smelling a carnation.

I step back from the glass to take in the full package. In lieu of tulle, Emmett seamlessly complements the outdoor elements, by framing the entire perimeter of glass walls in tons of mixed seasonal floral arrangements; wireless gold icicle lights peek between the blooms.

The functionally sectioned flow of the open floor lends the impression of separate rooms without physical dividers. The simple altar of long-strand straw bundles and glass pots of Black Eyed Susans, centered by the glass wall, is where Hunter and Lorri will exchange vows at sunset. The two purposely opted for the time of day when the sky is most watercolored in comforting beauty, and this angle allows them the optimal view. There are no seats provided, so I guess we'll witness from the ring standing space left near Hunter and Lorri.

It looks like we'll move behind us, against a different glass wall, after the ceremony, for the cocktail reception. An entirely new set-up awaits us there, and I quickly see why Emmett refused my full inventory of classic dining furniture. The new husband and wife will preside over their subjects from an uncovered rustic wood head-table, adorned at its outermost edge by a hanging garland of flowers and evergreen, and steady row of tealights. The guests will divide up over three bigger tables, engulfing the head-table in a shallow cresent; our centerpieces consist of tealights flickering between clusters of alternate sized glass vases filled with flowers. Each wrought iron chair boasts a satin green cushion—except the two ivorys up front—tied on with bows of dried corn husks.

"Gus, keep your sister out of the food," Justin says, probably recalling how that same curious look in JR's eyes led to her face-tasting her fourth birthday cake.

Justin put himself together very, _very_ well. His navy blue wool cardigan, with huge glossy brass buttons, matching bowtie, dark gray slacks, and cream shirt, highlight his face and make his blue eyes pop. I chose a more traditional cinnamon-brown silk suit, pumpkin shirt, and bright-rasberry polka dot pocket square—to compensate for not wearing a tie. Overall, the family looks clean, elegant, and appropriate—like a Milan _Vogue_ ad.

The ballroom's double doors are blocked by a line of high tables, draped in amethyst satin. Unshelled acorns, chestnuts, and walnuts are sprinkled in piles. Orange, beige, and green gourds topple multi-colored ears of corn and vines of glittered berries. Gold trays of intricate, heavy hor'deurvs and a warming turine of creamy chowder crowd the violet surface, promising light faire won't mean "left famished". After the way we've been stuffing our faces these past few days, I doubt any of us will complain about the omission of main entrées. The fully stocked bar at the end is dialing my number—the bartender cleaning glasses might better quench my thirst, though—but I can restrain from anchoring my chair by the scotch, until the toasts begin.

Emmett appears from the kitchen, carrying a big sprig of mint. I walk up to him as he tops the cake with it.

"Emmett…I'm impressed. You've outdone yourself."

I can tell my sincerity hits Emmett, but he clears his throat and recovers. "Thank you, Brian! Just wait till you see my bill," he jokes. That's one tough Mississippi sissy.

"Did you see the cake, Dad? It's insane!" Gus stands beside me.

On a lone slender stand, the three sizable square buttercream tiers, each separated by a red apple, rotate in opposite directions. "You're Uncle Em _is_ insane, Sonny Boy." I smile at Em and wrap my arm around Gus' shoulders, "Too bad I'm not eating solids tonight. Can't risk losing my waistline to a holiday binge diet."

"Me, too."

I look at my son, then snort, "Like you'd ever stop eating. I'm surprised you still have all your original fingers."

"I'm a growing boy that can't gain weight. It's a hard life," Gus sighs.

"You'll thank me for giving you my lean body, when you're older. Have you seen your mother's lard-bag father lately?" I smirk.

"Here they come!" Lorri's mom, Jill, holds her cheeks. She and her husband, Jack, left the bride and groom home alone, but I guess they weren't bright enough to elope. I turn around and see the videographer focusing her camera on the back door of a black Jaguar.

\---  
This may be the only time Hunter or Lorri will receive this honor while in my presence, but they are the best dressed people here. "Coordinated outfits" have no place in my style lexicon, but the ribbon plaid fabric Hunter's jacket and the bottom half of Lorri's A-line dress share, fits their wedding theme perfectly. All the indoor and outdoor colors seem to be represented in their tailored clothes; dark tan matches his pants to her three-quarter-sleeve bodice, providing the right balance, along with slicked back hair and understated make-up.

I glance at those in attendance and shiver from a sense of misplaced déjà vu. In another universe, identical faces are watching another wedding happen—mine and Justin's. Knowing how close we came to being one of the majority of long-married couples standing here is a sobering thought. Life went in reverse for us and now we're dateless at a hetero hitching.

"You may now kiss," Emmett concludes, causing an eruption of applause, whistles, and rose petals. Music magically fills the air as Hunter Novotny-Bruckner and Lorri Thumbalina Richards-Novotny-Bruckner kiss in the blinding rays of the dimming sun on the horizon.

\---  
Somewhere between a duck confit puff, my third drink, and Mikey losing it for the millionth time during his toast, I embraced my inner "Bitter Bitch" and needed to escape my own dysfunctional emotions. The moment the crowd gathered for the cake cutting, I stepped out on the side balcony for a smoke, knowing I forgot my case on my dresser.

This cheap ass wedding is conjuring up dead links I've kept buried in unmarked tombs for years, and it's pissing me off! I don't want to be returned to a time I associate with bright futures and hopeful beginnings. Justin was going to be the answer to all my serious questions because he was the boy that broke every Brian Kinney myth. He was "it"; above all other competitors. All my struggles, all my near misses, all my redemptions were going to be cleansed through Justin. That was my plan. I was more ready than he assumed, and was going to make us work because I wanted—needed—us to. Justin was the "someone" meant to save me…now I have no one. He and I were supposed to combust and make me whole. I'm not whole today because he broke me years ago.

"I brought you cake. It's good. There's some sort of Brandy flavored apple-pear-apricot cobbler filling thing."

Of course Justin brings cake. Justin always brings me things I don't want, when I don't want to see him.

"Do you mind? I'm getting some air."

There's a silent pause, but I know Justin is still standing there.

"Does it help that I feel it too?"

I whip my head around to face Justin in disbelief.

He abandons the cake plate on the flat banister, then slowly steps in my direction.

"That should be us."

"Thanks to you, it never will be."

"We can change that."

"Sorry, I don't swap rings or pretty vows with men that bail on me." I need Justin to keep more distance between us.

"That's not fair, Brian. We—"

"If the words 'mutual split' are on your tongue, bite down. Don't come out here trying to feed me bullshit—I was there too."

"Oh, so _I'm_ the enemy for agreeing to give our careers space to grow? Unbelievable!"

"You're nothing to me!

"Everything— _everything_!—I built for us died because you couldn't wait to trade me in and fuck a newer model!"

Less than a foot in front of me, Justin jolts back at my words. "Fuck you, Brian!" Justin barks. "I loved you!"

" _When_?" I shout. "Every life I lived bothered your fucking suburban ideals. 'Brian this, Brian that', yet you were the one cheating and walking out on me!

"Here's a news-flash, Justin: I don't need you to love me; I own who I am—faults and all. Who the fuck are _you_?"

Justin perseveres past my sucker punch. "Your partner. Your lover. The man you belong to."

"You lost me a long time ago."

Justin shakes his head. "I'll never lose you for good. No man can replace this."

"You had me and you killed me, Justin! I was happy, but you couldn't hold on, so you dropped me. You think I'm dumb enough to buy your 'I'll be different' promises? I know when a pathetic pussy is painting me perfect lies."

"I'm no less of a man than you are!" Justin's arms wing at his sides. "I struggle and make bad decisions I regret—I'm human! That does not justify you nailing me to the cross! Until you experience loving someone that's bigger than the world that created them—and sacrificing yourself to keep them on top—don't judge me!"

"Drop the God complex—I'm not your savior! Your suffering is your own doing," I point my finger to stop Justin.

"Do you know how much I questioned and doubted myself after you left?" My chest is burning open. "I suffered, every day, secretly downgraded who I was because I took the blame for losing you! No one held my hand or cleaned me up or helped me grieve. I had to swallow my shit and force you out of my life so you wouldn't paralyze me." Tears are prickling behind my eyes, but I keep them at bay.

"Ironic how you inadvertently taught me how to cope with the mess you caused." I scoff, "Boys I meet in front of Babylon are always messy."

Justin swallows. "Really? So I'm just some sloppy trick to you now? What, you're gonna void all the support I gave you too?

"I loved you for your heart, not your dick, Brian. I fought your enemies; ate _Ramen_ and tuna sandwiches off designer china, when unemployment and my minimum wage jobs barely covered the essentials; helped you start Kinnetik; nursed you through cancer…raised Gus!" Justin counts off. "I did all of that for us! You better fucking remember me, you bastard!"

"What is this, The Boys Scouts? Good deeds don't get you merit badges here. All of what you said are 'Memories, of the way we were', like Barbara sang. Consider them your consolation prizes for ruining the best thing you've ever had."

Justin exhales a frustrated breath and pulls a cigarette from his lighter. I'm jonesing for a nicotine fix, but there's no way in Hell I'm asking him for one.

"Yes, Brian, I slipped—I get that. Now, let me prove I can fix this…dammit I want you back!"

I fill the gap between Justin and I, to crowd his existence and let the pain consume me. "You didn't 'slip', you betrayed me!" We've been slapping back and forth for what could be hours now, yet I've held back my final blow.

"I believed in us! You'd put so much value on vows and shit I didn't agree with, but thought you deserved. I was _convinced_ if anyone could make those words true, it was you. I was never going to be 'normal', but being your 'other' wasn't so horrifying anymore—until you left me in a nightmare!

"I sat in there," I point to the wall where dance music pulses from inside, "sick to my stomach, listening to Em condemn Hunter and Lorri with the same empty words you robbed from me! You don't get to fix us—you broke us! I could give a shit about what you want, Justin! I'm _done_ with you." Fuck this and fuck him.

Justin flinchs, but lights his cigarette anyway. He looks away. "You know what, Brian?…" he takes a drag, "hate me.

"If you need more time to recover, do that. I hurt you and I'm sorry for any damage I caused, but I'm not giving up on us. You won't get rid of me. I'll stay beside you the whole way: on your mind, at your office, in your bed…" What?

"The days of you and I getting the sheets sweaty are ancient history."

"You sure about that?" Justin's eyebrows scrunch. "As you so pig-headedly bitched me out Wednesday: You own me. God, you were so right! After I move back here—permanently—I'll be all yours, all the time."

Like Hell. "Nice try. You're not leaving New York, Justin."

Justin presses into me, staring up into my eyes. "You're right… I'm not leaving." Justin pats off his ashes. "But don't underestimate me, Brian—I know you. You're angry at me, but you also love me. I saw it on your face that weekend at Britin, and when you hold Nomine. I believe a lot of truth came out of all those talks we had."

The weekend that started all this fuckery is another place I don't wish to revisit. "Go back inside before I—"

My zipper suddenly finds itself between Justin's fingers. He gives it a snail tug, daring me to move or break eye contact. I keep my face expressionless, like he's no different from the many men that paw at my crotch on any given day. I clench my throat the moment Justin slips a warm, inappropriate hand through my fly, cupping my cock through my soft cotton briefs.

I bend my deadly serious face a nose-hair from Justin's. This confrontation has dragged on too far, and I'm stopping here. "I've said what I had to say. Now get lost—your services are no longer needed."

Justin side-blows the last of his smoke, tossing the butt in a corner; his hand never leaves my pants. We're close enough to share body heat. "Tell me you don't love me, first.

"Tell me every guy you meet doesn't pale in comparison to me.

"Tell me you don't smell me when you enter a room,

"Or hear my voice at night.

"That you wouldn't surrender the world for another future with me!

"Because that's who you are to me! I'm not playing—I'm yours, Brian! Even when I wasn't, I was yours."

Justin inches up. I taste his tobacco breath on my mouth. The anticipation of what I know is coming consumes me. I cease all movement—even though blood is rushing to all corners of my body—but force my eyes to stay open.

The wetness from the interior of Justin's lips' moisten the interior of my bottom lip, and I surrender. Most would miss the slightly undetectable moment of contact because of his subtle accuracy, but I'm too trained. I lose concept of time and space, but know Justin and I are infinitely fused.

Justin's right hand is at my cock, reaching my nuts; his left hand snakes under my suit jacket, to explore my shirted back. Justin's mouth shapes itself to mine, and our tongues enjoy their long postponed, familiar dance. As my palms cradle Justin's face, I embarrassingly admit, to myself, that he has accomplished a successful attack. In this moment, I refuse defeat because the loss sustained from kissing the man I've based my theories of love on, is at a loss to me.

The party our family will be no doubt celebrating in sin until sunrise, only re-enters my mind when I hear a gasped "Oh my God!", and turn to catch the shocked face by the glass door.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

"Oh, Jesus! I'm sorry!" Jennifer blocks her eyes and tries to disappear on panicked feet.

In the moment of surprise, Justin's hand flies out of my fly. He scowls when he realizes the interruption is only his intruding mother. I play calm and use the opportunity to zip myself back in place.

We both look at her.

"I was… I want…" Jennifer stutters.

"What is it, _Mom_?" Justin folds his arms. I push down the chuckle rising up at the scene unfolding: a mother walking in on her son with another guy. I flashback to memories long archived…too bad Patrick Swayze's dead.

"They're playing 'Brown-Eyed Girl'. We haven't danced yet," Jennifer does her awkward explanation, randomly gesturing in that confused way she does when she won't give herself permission to meddle and demand answers like most mothers do.

I say nothing. I'm not angry at Jennifer; I want to thank her. She just saved us from the potential destruction of adding more conflict to our loaded baggage. No good can come from Justin and I having an impromptu hook-up, after a cutthroat fight over all the reasons why we fail together. You don't go blow-for-blow with your ex, then let him blow you for old times' sake.

"Mom, I'll be right in, okay? Can you please give us a minute… _alone_?" Justin growls.

Right. Because I'm dumb enough to not know what "a minute" really implies.

"I don't think so," I stare at Justin. "Ginger, Fred Astaire's all yours."

Justin calls after me, but I continue walking to the door behind Jennifer.

"Stay right where you are, Brian!" Jennifer looks between Justin and myself, rubbing her arms against the cold. The upside of menswear is its layers. Straight women need to learn what lesbians have known forever and invest in more suits to beat the cold.

"I want to know what I just walked in on," Jennifer points her finger. "You two said you were sorting out your _friendship_ , now I find you kissing and—," her hand glides to fill in the blank.

"Shaking hands?" I provide.

Jennifer's look silences me. "Are you back together and not telling us? What in the Hell is going on?" she hugs herself.

I'm as confused as she is, but I'm not saying anything. I've done my share of confessing tonight. "Jennifer, Justin and I are adults. Whatever you saw us doing is called 'none of your business.'"

"You boys are roughly new to parenting—none of your kids have facial hair, yet—but you'll learn this soon enough: _Everything_ your child does is your business," Jennifer enlightens us. "There are other people involved in your rollercoaster lives, and the choices you make affect us all. Remember that."

She sounds just like her damn son.

"Spare me the lecture, Mom," said son puts up his hand. "My daughter needs her feeding then her crib. Excuse me." Justin brushes past us to head inside.

"Be sure to wash your hands, first," I tell him. Justin gives me the finger, as he walks away. Jennifer shudders in delicate distaste.

"Kids nowadays," I shake my head.

"You would know."

"I'm going in," I smile at Jennifer. "I'm nowhere near as drunk as everyone else at this breeder hoe-down and it's ruining my reputation." I step into the secluded corridor.

Jennifer steps ahead of me and turns on her peep-toe heels. _Another_ Taylor speech in under an hour. Their editor must work holidays.

"I'm counting on you to be the smarter one here, Brian," Jennifer connects with my eyes. "Justin has had an overwhelming year, and, as _much_ as I love my son," Jennifer's voice grows heavy, "he lets his emotions consume him. Don't let him take more than you can give."

I respectfully nod at Jennifer, the woman who once demanded I take care of her son and not simply fuck him. Years later, she's still a step ahead of me. Old habits die hard.

"I want what's best for both of you," Jennifer adds sincerely. "After Justin got hurt, I learned things aren't that black and white; 'evil Brian vs. my innocent baby' doesn't work for me anymore. I can't begin to imagine how Justin being back in your life is affecting you."

It's rare that anyone mentions concern for _my_ feelings. The concern is usually what I'm doing to someone else's feelings. Caring for my human side was Justin's forte. While Mikey and Deb were one hit wonders when it came to having my back, Justin never quit. I can hate him for leaving and hurting me, but, like he told me out on the balcony, I can't deny how he held me together.

"He's kicking my ass, Jen."

"I can tell," Jennifer smiles; she knows too much.

"Care to dance your troubles away?" Jennifer offers me her dainty hand, wrapped in a dangling tennis bracelet.

I sigh dramatically, "You're not really my type, but I'll make this one exception."

Jennifer leads me back to the main party. The bartender cruises me—we really need to stop hiring for functions from that temp agency on Liberty—but not even I think fucking the help will help my situation.

I twirl Jennifer through the, now slow, song, watching Justin's eyes penetrate me as he pats Nomine's sleepy back. This is far from over.

\---  
"Good morning, _Justin Taylor's_. This is Dale speaking," the silky young Southern voice chirps in my ear.

"Hi, Dale. Is your boss around? His cell phone is voicemailing me to death." I sign off on a budget-excess request, asking to pay for the rights to a pricey song we're using in a major spring car campaign.

"Oh, Mr. Kinney…" Dale sounds uncomfortable, "Mr. Justin is occupied at the moment. I can take a massage— _message_ —for you. Sir." For Christmas, I'm buying Justin staff that can tell a good lie. Cynthia once took it upon herself to tell my mother I moved out to Utah to be a missionary; I got Cynthia a summer house.

"You know, Dale, that would be helpful. I tell you what, put me on speakerphone—I have a lovely message you can take down," I lean back in my chair.

"Right away, Mr. Kinney."

Idiot.

I hear a beep and Dale's distant voice, indicating I am on speakerphone. "Tell Justin that his deadline to select a foreign project is tomorrow, and I expect him to meet it. Feeling me up at—"

"Brian!" Justin picks up the phone. "Thank you, Dale. I got the message," he says with embarrassment.

I hear a door close. "I'd prefer you not tell my assistant my private details!" Justin seethes.

"I was leaving a message. Isn't that like his _job_?"

"Brian, to what do I owe the pleasure of being your latest terrorist target?"

"Why are you dodging my calls?"

Justin laughs. "I miss this. Your narcissism rivals that of Narcissus himself.

"I have clients too, you know. I don't sit around all day playing peek-a-boo with the baby. I was discussing design changes with a client and told Dale 'no interruptions.'"

Uh huh. "Sounds plausible. Why didn't your Girl Friday just say that?"

" _Assistant_ , and most likely because you intimidated him before he could.

"Dale's from a part of Mississippi where they host pie contests and maypole dances—gay barbarians are new for him. He might also be clueless enough to have a crush on you." I can hear Justin's keyboard clicking.

I smile. The newer generation is even more susceptible to my strain of seduction. "Smart boy. Tell him I'll call back at noon and pop his office phone-sex cherry for lunch."

"Do that and I'll forward your calls to lonely Allison, from now on."

Threat received. "Anyway, I'm scheduling next week's flight plans with Kinnetik's pilots. Which overseas destination have you chosen for us?"

"Bali," Justin easily answers.

I tense slightly. Not this again. Bali was a longstanding vacation we promised to organize, but never took. It was Ibiza, version three.

I clutch my phone a bit tighter. "Justin, every conversation we have can't segue to your failure to get laid. You're not the first man to want me and can't have me—go to a support group." Seriously.

"Brian, I'm your first everything," Justin scoffs. "And don't hate me for refusing to act as if nothing happened between us at Hunter's wedding."

"Oh, come off it! Nothing did, in fact, happen!

"Here's what you're missing, though: You have a career to push, and right now _I'm_ pushing it more than you. Start pushing, Justin!"

I don't have time to sort the buildup of thoughts weighing on me. Kinnetik is busier than the restaurant closest to a fat camp! We have holiday prints; reprints; TV, radio, Internet, Internet-radio, and phone ads; language barriers and glitches; and regular December/New Year buzz to top it off. Cynthia limps past my door in a broken shoe, holding two phones to her head, emphasizing the chaos. I can't play Justin's games.

“Justin you know better than anyone else: I fuck a lot, but I never fuck my money. Use me to your advantage, but don't waste my time. Divert some of your obsessive energy; have a decision in my inbox, within the hour. And, just to clarify, 'inbox' isn't a euphemism. Bye."

I hang up and massage my temples. Fucking Justin! I assign him to a nice, controlled, corner of my life and he's finding every means to not stay in it. "Ex-drama" isn't my style—he knows that!—yet he insists on advocating for a messy rebirth of our dead relationship.

I should've known better. Why the fuck did I drop my guard the other night? I knew Justin's dirty tactics and that he'd be calculating how to break me. Did I _want_ to be re-conquered? If Jennifer hadn't popped up, how different would today's conversation have gone?

This is the prime reason I shun romance.

My phone chimes. I have a video-note: _"_ Taku ipo _, did you watch my All Blacks send your guys home to Uncle Sammy?"_ Kai's familiar, booming voice hits my ears. I laugh at his rugged accent and brusque appearance.

 _Leave rugby to the Kiwis and get better defense! My owner’s box was lonely without you today. Pōmarie,"_ he smiles goodnight.

It's been months since Kai and I shared the same space, and, while it's typical, the distance doesn't go unnoticed.

I dial back Kai's number.

"Tell me you are calling from the airport, to request I clear your name with my security," he answers on the first ring. Beyond the scope of Kai's phone's light, his background is pitch black, hiding the active birds and water I hear. Our sixteen hour time difference has him past one a.m.

"I am in Pittsburgh," I point to the icy office window behind my desk, "and, unfortunately, every guard here knows who I am."

"Bummer," Kai frowns.

"Nice work with team USA." I have the match on mute in my office. "Thirty to eighteen is a close upset, though. I'm pretty sure it just got your dual citizenship revoked."

"When will you be moving to New Zealand, then?" Kai sips what I identify as a beer. "I can petition the Prime Minister on zoning laws for your walk-in closets," his bright green eyes tease.

I chuckle sarcastically. "Comedian too? Is there anything you can't do?"

"I can't wrap you in my arms. I'm dying to taste you, taku ipo." Kai's voice softens. I personally know his insatiable appetite is beyond tasting.

"You'll see me when World Cup ends— _sooner_ if you get eliminated." I drink the last of my coffee and toss the cup.

"Eliminated? I sense the bitterness of shattered U.S. dreams. The All Blacks came to take home the cup and we're not leaving Fiji without it."

"Christ. You're such a warrior, Kai," I sigh.

"It's my Māori blood," Kai rubs his chest; the veins on his forearm tighten. Some guy is going to bend over and take it hard from me tonight because of that sexy image.

Kai twists the cap off another beer, and focuses on my face. "I want you in Fiji for the finals. They start week after next."

I was not expecting this. I listen for what else might come with it.

"I know men like us are desensitized to powerful things, but rugby still gives me goosebumps; and World Cup… taku ipo, it's a hearerican footballtbeat you have to feel." Ever the poet. "You may not get it, but you have to feel it."

I do get it, thanks to Kai. I was born far from rugbyland, but it's hard not to get caught up in such a passionate, testosterone sport. It's like American football's more hostile first cousin.

I scan my calendar into early-January. "Kinnetik will be unwinding an intense peak season, but I guess I can sneak a trip," I confirm. I make the edit and Cynthia's system updates automatically. I'll have to explain myself to her, next.

"Yes!" Kai's eyes glow a shade of hope. "If you had said no, I'd have had #14 flash you his willy and ask you again."

"Then, no," I switch my answer. "Bring him out."

#14 is the twenty-four-year-old beast cleaning up goals for the All Blacks these days. More importantly, he has a huge package. Watching it bulge his tiny shorts when he runs makes me want to fuck him onto the injured list—girlfriend or not.

"Frankly, Kai, an invitation to a coveted sporting event is not the worst proposition I've been made, with clothes on. I wouldn't mind the much needed break from my local life, either." It's true.

"Life got you down?"

"Loads of bullshit."

"Boys at Babylon?"

"You could say that."

\---  
Justin picked the Austrian job.

On the jet ride over, I dissect Kinnetik World's obligations, as stated in our Terms of Service.

"So Kinnetik pays for all my travel expenses?" Justin reads a page of the contract.

Nomine is braced up in Justin's lap, chewing her foot covered in "propeller jet" feetie-pajamas. At just over four months, she's watching Justin a lot and making deeper sounds. Nomine's travel, and on-call, nanny, Sadé, sits at a distance, listening to her earphones to grant us privacy.

" _Relevant_ travel expenses," I stress. "A driver will take you from your residence to the worksite, when needed. We will also permit optional use of a company jet to take you back home, on pre-selected holidays and personal days."

"You do know I can afford all that myself, right Brian?" Justin turns the page with his free hand. It's surreal talking about Justin's wealth and independence. So much of his identity used to revolve around my maintaining him. Time stands still only for the dead, I guess.

"Company policy," I shrug.

"I admit this arrangement veers from the norm, in that Kinnetik is strongly invested in building your image. Usually our clients come ready-made, and all we have to do is pimp their brand. All these perks are meant to help your performance, which increases the cash response from the public."

"My performance never needs help," Justin raises his eyebrows.

"I won't sign anything until I examine the university's actual work plan. If it's not up to standard, I'll move on to my backup project."

"Agreed." That's smart business. I'm glad I taught him non-sexual life lessons, too. I place the contracts back in my briefcase.

"She holds up well on a plane, for a baby," I point to Nomine. I never flew much with Gus, but, as a former frequent flier of commercial airlines, I know the horrors of babies and airplanes; they're mortal enemies. I playfully tug Nomine's leg from her mouth. Her big blue eyes look at me, expecting something more fascinating. I feel somewhat judged.

"Oh, she's born for the jet-setter lifestyle. A real Leo," Justin holds Nomine to his face and nibbles her caramel cheeks. She latches on to eat the tassel on his hat, but he takes it off.

"I flew comfortably throughout my first two trimesters—can't fly during your last—then picked up again weeks after she was born. It's remarkable how in tune she is with it." Justin swings Nomine in the air; she likes the gravity-free motion.

"Life of privilege, huh?" I sit back in my recliner and sip my good scotch.

"Tell me about it," Justin smiles. I've seen Justin's smiles on a myriad of occasions—I've even influenced a few of them myself—but this smile was invented solely for Nomine. It's as if she found a hidden switch and set off another level of shine.

"Yes! Daddy and Brian are talking about you, and Brian said you are a spoiled little g-i-r-l!" he gasps, nibbling Nomine's curled up neck. "Tell him: 'I'm not spoiled, just extra extra perfect!'"

Nomine's squeals are infectious. I watch her lure Justin into their own private world. There's no way this scene ever gets old.

\---  
In Justin's hotel room, he and I discuss the finer details of the meeting we just had in Vienna. I'm safe as long as Nomine stays with us; nothing happens when a baby's in a room—well, not an awake baby.

The university's proposal is for Justin to design, and paint, a sculpture for their campus' famous fountain. They will supply Justin with an artisan team responsible for doing most of the actual sculpting his blueprint requires, and he has to guarantee they get a unique trademark.

"I don't hate it. No one's ever asked me to sculpt," Justin searches his suitcase with Nomine secured in one arm, slobbering on some stupid toy the school gave her from their bookstore. Only artists can win administrators over by bringing a baby to a meeting. Sadé has to be earning the easiest babysitting paycheck ever: free trip to Austria, and the baby stays with her dad.

"It's a perfect deal," I sip my hot chocolate, lounging on the luxurious couch in his bedroom.

"It's very far from home." Justin finds the rainbow blanket he was looking for and sits on the bed, facing me. "I travel a lot for clients, but this far, and for this long, is a first."

"Home is where your cash is."

"What about family?"

"You're holding her."

Justin snuggles Nomine in the large blanket. "It's not the right time, Brian."

"That's an urban legend. Every 'time' is wrong because of opportunity cost. There's always something you give up, Justin."

"You and I are finally picking up where we left off," Justin plays with Nomine's hand. He is utterly incapable of seeing the damage to our infrastructure.

"Only in your warped blonde head are we even remotely functional." It must be so relaxing on his planet of one. I sit up and lean my elbows on my knees, cradling my warm mug.

"Focus on the present: This university is drooling over itself for you. You'll have creative leniency because they're not locking you into 'their art.' The money and notoriety being offered is generous enough for me to consider sabotaging you and taking the deal myself. Be lucky I don't draw." Justin laughs at my exaggeration.

"This is Europe, Justin: the birthplace of artistic revolutions. Being included here and exposing Nomine to this life outside her norm—even for a few measly months—is worth it. It's a big fucking deal! You have nothing to lose."

A breathless pause strangles the room. Justin focuses on Nomine's gurgling face, then nods. I catch his cue and get up, to rest my favorite pen on the folder of contracts on the desk.

"I need to know one thing, Brian," Justin straightens his back, "do _you_ want me gone?"

I don't hesitate. "Think of who I am; you wouldn't last in New York if I genuinely wanted you gone." I lift Nomine into my arms and walk over to the window, while Justin sits at the desk.

Snow flurries down from the white sky to the already white ground. Here in the ski town Justin requested, the Austrian altitude piles white powder everywhere. Back home on the East Coast, the new winter has produced low temperatures, but no precipitation. Nomine's most likely witnessing her first snowfall.

I point to the glass and Nomine stares in small bursts of wonder, and, of course, wants to touch the window. Her tiny fingers even try to grab my lips as I slowly pronounce "snow".

There's a deep connection for me in facilitating one of the many firsts Nomine's exclusive life will accommodate—I regularly played the sane role with her father. However, contrary to all my presumptions, I feel everything _but_ old, watching her world grow.

"She's never seen snow, before," Justin stands beside us, studying his daughter.

"I figured as much," I rub Nomine's back. "She'll end up hating it the first time she tries catching a yellow cab in a blizzard." Justin snorts in agreement.

"She's so fascinated. You see the pretty snow, Nom-Noms? We have it in New York, too." Justin smiles at his enamored daughter and leans up to press a kiss to her curly head.

"I hope she gets a white Christmas, next week. A freshly snowed holiday is my favorite time to be at Britin. The wreaths, and lights, and huge trees make me feel like I'm inside a postcard. I want Britin to create the same memories for Nomine I got from it."

"It will. She'll also make the memories you missed."

"I want everything for her," Justin rubs his knuckle on her chubby cheek.

Nomine rubs her tired face in my neck. I wrap her blanket closer and gently rock my body.

Justin meets my eyes, "So, the ink is dry. What's next in your diabolical plan for me?"

I think for a minute. "Sometime before February, Kinnetik World will start promoting the statue's August unveiling. We'll hit architectural, business, and art periodicals. I'll set up a local press conference, with the media and the university's board members, for your April kickoff. From there, your magic takes the wheel."

Justin nods and rests his hand on Nomine's back, as I hold her. "Always glad to be in your hands."

\---  
Justin's wish for Nomine came true: Christmas Eve jingled all the way to Britin, dashing through a foot of new snow.

Behind closed doors, no jolly mayhem is spared: Christmas carols float in surround sound; Charlie Brown finds Christmas meaning in a dead pine tree; Debbie whips up diabetes-inducing batches of eggnog and cookies, happily over-frosted by "super-elf" JR; folks cluster around the tree, adding their own ornaments and gifts; and we even have a menorah.

Justin walks over, glass of eggnog in one hand, Nomine—dressed in a gift wrap inspired sleeper and ribbon head-bow—bouncing in the other.

"We think Blake's pregnant," he gushes.

"Like he and Theodore have sex." Those two couldn't start a fire with a full lighter, much less spark up intercourse. "Isn't it too soon for 'Immaculate Conception: the Sequel'?"

"Love makes people do crazy stuff, Brian. Plus, you can't refute the signs: Blake's glow; Ted's joy; the _virgin_ eggnog," Justin shakes his glass.

Nomine opens her mouth. "No, Nom, I already fed you," Justin kisses her wet lips. "This is Daddy's bottle."

"Way to go Matlock."

"Perry Mason. Raymond Burr actually was gay." Ooh, trivia.

"Did you gossiping hens not consider that, as a recovering drug addict, Blake chooses absolute sobriety? Or even notice that half the room is drinking alcohol-free eggnog?" I point out to Justin the green glasses outnumbering the reds. "Tell me: Is pregnancy now an epidemic?" I roll my eyes. People and their conspiracies.

"One pregnancy does not an obstetrician make, Sunshine. Having one baby doesn't make you a baby expert. Plus, we know Ted can't keep secrets. A banner would've hung across his office door the day they found out."

"Debbie agrees with me," Justin defends.

"What does she know? She's only got one kid, too!" I prove my case. "Which she had back in the ancient times of yore. Probably didn't take nine months then." It's baffling how willing we are to believe in people just as inexperienced as ourselves.

"You're the same age as Michael—you just called yourself ancient!" Justin laughs out loud. Shit.

Justin deposits Nomine in my lap, like a present, to reach for an iced gingerbread house. Whenever she and I are in the same room, Nomine somehow ends up in my arms. She eyes my nose, but gets distracted by the colorful flickering lights and vintage electric train set Gus is trying to fix for Santa's village. Her cognitive skills aren't great, but she is picking up on her environment.

"So, Scrooge," Justin settles in with his cookie, "should we tell them about my moving to Vienna?"

"Save it for New Year's Eve," I advise him.

"While you're partying at Babylon and I'm stuck here facing my Mom and Debbie's menopausal wrath? Nice try."

"Actually, I'll be in Fiji, then New Zealand. I leave in a couple days." My anxiety over coming out to Justin about Kai is stifling. I don't fear any particular reaction, just that there will be a reaction.

"Lovers getaway with one Mr. Kaihautu Weepu?" Justin asks.

My brain goes blank. Oh. Hell. No.

"What's with the face, Brian? Did I mispronounce your boyfriend's name?" Justin turns to face me. "Or is it that I ruined your _big_ Australian confession?" he adds a jazz hand.

"He's from New Zealand and he's not my boyfriend." Good answer.

"My apologies." I see Justin's country club spirit fighting to break free and sting me.

I fake a real laugh, livid that Justin has access to leaked intel on me, but intent on throwing off his confidence. "Good job, Justin. You found out the name of a rich, hot, gay man I fuck, yet can't get _your_ name on my 'to do' list."

"I've been done by you in ways I doubt you're doing him, Brian," Justin's brandy whispers tickle my ear, "but I'm greedy. I want to eat you all day and all night, then again for dessert…and I hate sharing,"

"Really, Justin. Your desperation is making my dick soft."

Justin rolls his eyes. "It's not desperation if you win; it's determination. I'll let you keep him a bit longer—you need your fun. Make sure he doesn't get too comfortable in my spot."

"Can't claim what you don't own."

"Challenge accepted. Tell your boytoy to start packing," Justin retaliates.

Nomine sucks her fist, oblivious to the titans clashing under her nose. Justin has the gall to make a funny face at her, as if this fight isn't crossing a dangerous demilitarized zone.

"Careful Justin. You go after Kai, we have a problem," I signal between us. "Manipulation is the game I cut my teeth on. I'm not an opponent you want."

"Wrong, Brian…you're my trophy."

The music fades. Ted and Blake stand by the fireplace. "Everyone," Ted nods, "Blake and I have Christmas cheer of our own to spread…We're expecting!" They boast matching megawatt smiles and show off Blake's midsection.

The living room is in pandemonium, with Chief Debbie in the heart of all the fuss.

"Damn, I'm good!" Justin eats another cookie and raises his glass in Ted and Blake's direction, from the couch. The grin he throws at me has nothing to do with the future addition to the family. It's a lot more personal.

What the fuck is Justin up to?

\---  
I step off the jet and set next season's Versace sunglasses to the blazing sun. The gentle breeze settles on my cotton shirt. Kai sits on the hood of a sports-car, holding a sign: "Fiji, beware! Brian Kinney is here!"

I thank my private crew at the bottom of the metal steps and approach Kai. "I don't get leied?"

"That's Hawai'i," Kai howls a burly laugh and drags me by pant-waist between his lightly hairy legs.

Our kiss heavies and Kai's hands get frisky. The baggage handler closing my suitcase in the trunk breaks us apart.

"I am going to _lei_ you out on my bed and do extremely bad, but good, things to your body," Kai promises from behind his aviator shades.

"Who says I'll let you? I came here to watch rugby, not be seduced."

"Feisty one you are." Kai palms my ass and smiles. He jumps off the car's hood, "Places to go, people to cruise. Your chariot awaits you, Mr. Kinney."

I climb in the left passenger seat. It's weird not seeing a steering wheel attached to this side.

Kai guns the engine, slips into first gear, and peels us off the airport Tarmac.

The tropical Fijian landscape of palm trees, blue skies, turquoise oceans, and straw roofs, flies past my eyes. As an experienced traveler, I know the warm air and tranquility is speeding up my jet lag, but I'm enjoying the scenery.

Kai masterfully commanders the wheel on the winding mountain roads. He mouths along to the low-volume song coming through the speakers. When he's not using his left hand to shift to lower gears around hairpin turns, it affectionately caresses my thigh—not at all untoward.

Kai and I use silence like this. As busy men on the go, in control of money, places, and people, we leave our brains off for downtime. It helps that he gets that.

My tired body is on the verge of giving in. I feel the car slow and wake up. Kai addresses a man in uniform, at a towering gate. They speak in a foreign language and Kai hands him an ID card. The man scans inside the car and waves to me, then signals the gate to open with a swipe of the card.

Kai drives forward, up a long driveway leading to a sprawling villa. Fruit trees and colorful flowers inundate the grounds. The smell of saltwater, hot sand, and fresh plants invigorate my senses. The swish of waves rushing the beach harmonizes with the wild bird calls I remember hearing over the phone.

"This is where we get off," Kai leans over and kisses me.

"Villa for two? Sure we have enough space?" I get out the car.

Kai laughs and grabs my suitcase.

"I'm not feeble. I can carry my own shit," I reach out to take it from him. I'm not a fan of chivalrous treatment—it's bad enough I let him refer to me as his "beloved" in an indigenous language. Able-bodied adults should handle manual labor.

Kai ignores me and heads to the house's entrance. "I'm just going to rest it in the bedroom. You can carry it the rest of the way."

Inside, simple furniture dots the open floor plan. Soothing citrus and pastels coat the walls. Glass doors frame the breathtaking views and eternal ocean. Upstairs is one huge master bedroom, wrapped by a continuous balcony outside.

The bathroom is all glass, opening to the balcony. It's bigger than the loft and has a massage corner with two tables. I'm sold. I start unbuttoning. Kai walks in as I'm dropping my briefs.

"Like what you see?" Kai leans over an island intended only for storing toiletries. His smoky skin, feline-green eyes, and smoldering black low-cut shag look enticing, bathed in the summer sun of late-December.

"I'll like it more after a shower," I answer. "I've been on a plane since yesterday—I reek."

"Let me see." The predatory look in Kai's eyes tells me he's headed for trouble. He slowly steps closer and rolls his face in my neck. Feeling his energy warm my naked skin possesses my mutual demon.

"You smell like a man: faded cologne and body musk," Kai nips my throat. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" He slips my hand in his jersey shorts, to rub his cock. Kai's lips find mine, as he pushes me against the glass balcony door. He pulls his t-shirt off and I devour his chest.

Kai stands a subjective inch taller than me—he fucking argues it's more in metric. Though he traded in his rugby scrum cap for an owner's hat years ago, he maintains the solid, lean muscularity of his professional rugby days. I admire how deceiving his body is. It has none of Ben's bodybuilder bulk, presenting an average fit frame when dressed, but is an artillery of smooth rippedness underneath. Kai's thighs, abs, back, and arms hold enough power to knock beefy rugby men off their cleats and run through walls of tacklers.

I trace my tongue along Kai's hypnotic _ta moko_ tattoos. The primal body art of his Māori ancestral tribe swirl his biceps and chest, climb over his shoulder to his back, then peek back out on his neck. His body is an obvious physical contrast to my unmarked, and leaner, one, but together we combust.

Kai presses a condom in my palm. "Be quick," he growls. Yanking his shorts all the way down, I look into his eyes and tear the foil with my teeth, then expertly unfurl the condom on his erection. Once my legs are hoisted to Kai's waist, I know all reasoning will be abandoned.

After these past months of unavoidable beatings from my personal life, I can't think of better therapy than every gay man's birthright: a fat stiff cock up the ass. I always laugh when people adamantly believe I never bottom. How do they think I learned to be such a great top? Homo instinct? The truth is: I do enjoy the occasional bottoming, and having my prostate poked, but I'm too smart to trust my ass or reputation in the hands of random club tricks and players. Kai is neither of those people—nor was Justin—and right now he's using every ounce of athleticism he owns to fuck me good.

I bang the back of my head on the glass door and grip Kai's hips in a vice. Kai thrusts inside me. I slam down on his up and tighten my ass. He really likes that, but can't handle the pressure I'm supplying. Kai grunts and roots his face in my throat. Our abs grind the sweat between us, adding friction to my trapped cock. My breaths become shallow.

"Fuck." Kai squeezes his eyes and moves my body for me. I keep up the faster riding pace he sets, while reaching down to help myself.

"Blow your load, Kai," I wince, flip flopping on the edge of an orgasm. Kai's erratic jerks push deeper and I shoot my cum on us both. Kai yells my name and I feel his pulsations through the condom inside me.

We unceremoniously fall to the floor gasping for air. I spread my cramped legs on either side of his torso, propped up against the glass that supported my entire ride.

"You've been practicing," I comment.

Kai tries to laugh, but coughs instead. "Hard to tell, eh?"

\---  
Kai and I rummage the kitchen in our towels, after Round Two in the shower. In my defense, I had every intention of showering, but Kai dropped the soap and I had to help him out.

Kai pours two glasses of some local concoction called _kava_. Apparently it's very special to Fijian culture and one of his players' mothers made him a batch. I'm not converted. I'm a post-coital booze and cigarette American.

Kai pushes slices of fruit in my mouth, to taste. I don't catch any of the names he pronounces in perfect Fijian and hope to any God still listening to me that I don't develop some deadly island fever or flesh eating parasite from the strange produce.

"By the way, you never mentioned you speak fluent Fijian."

"The All Blacks have a few players from Fiji, as well as Samoa and Tonga. I speak all their languages. We Pacific Islanders are a small, diverse group, yet our differences have common threads," Kai brags.

Kai would be secretly multilingual, although all his players speak English. He's almost two years my senior, but took a tougher path to high success. He lives to compete and doesn't apologize for winning. That tenacity bought him his former employer's job: sole owner of the New Zealand "All Blacks", the most popular, successful, and revered rugby team in the world.

I nod. Kai scratches his crotch and peels more fruit to munch. He leans against the counter opposite the one I'm sitting on.

"So, what drama are you running from back home? Father Christmas suing ruthless admen for sullying his good image?"

Kai does this because he is that transparent. He asks questions some would recoil from, not wanting to hear an unpleasant truth. The first day he walked into Kinnetik's studio—for a team photo-shoot last year—he boldly asked me to be their local guide for a great night on the town, once the photographer wrapped. Later on, he suggested I take him to a gay hot spot for a better time. I don't think he worries about rejection.

"My ex is back."

" _Justin_?" Kai drags the 'u'.

"There's only one."

"You told me you weren't mates. Left on bad blood," Kai calmly reads my face.

"No blood, just death.

"He was back home in Pittsburgh, this September. I bumped into him and his daughter."

"Daughter?! God, she's not your—"

And we're off. "No, Kai. She's brand new and her other dad's Black.

"Anyway, Justin and I caught up. We hashed out our respective delayed feelings. The family got involved. It got awkward. Then, at a recent family gathering, we had a blow-up and stuff happened."

"Bad stuff?" Kai dares me to lie.

"Kissing and fondling stuff."

"Wow! That is bad," Kai deposits his knife in the sink and cleans up his mess of fruit skins.

"So you've been with your ex since September, and say nothing to me?" Kai asks incredulously.

"Kai, I'm not _with_ anyone, especially not Justin. You and I are free agents. I don't owe you any answers and you knew I came with a past."

"You're right," Kai nods. "We agreed to let this be what it is, nothing extra."

"It's working for me." I pull my poker-face up front.

Kai stands in front of me, "Except, Justin. Your body language tells me the tension isn't one-sided between you two."

Of course I'm tense! Fucking sports psychology proves zilch. "Justin is being Justin, right now. He's hurt and needy and somehow that makes me his quest. Also, he doesn't approve of you, to say the least. How he actually knew about you is a mystery to me."

Kai laughs. "Something wicked in that old beau."

"No more wicked than me. I taught him all the tricks he's using to get me back." I exhale and rub my eyes. I'm fully feeling the impact of my life—and jet lag—now. Every person is a liability. I only stand to lose. That's what Jennifer was telling me.

Kai grips my knees and wanders past the edge of my towel. "I'm sorry you're taking on these problems; stress is an old bedfellow of mine, as well.

"Here's how I see the situation: Professionally, I'm trained to run toward big men charging to tear me apart, all while keeping my hands on a ball." Kai's hands knead my worn thigh muscles.

"Above all else—bad strategy, fear, injury, dead grandmum—as a forward, I make sure that ball, once in my possession, remains in play until my team crosses it over the goal line. It's how I was taught and how my men are taught. It's how I live my life." Kai's fingers slip to my inner thighs. I'm waiting for the moral of his story, but his hands aren't letting me focus.

"I don't drop balls, Brian," Kai palms my sack in one palm. Bingo! "I keep my eye on the goal and take out any man in my way. If I lose, it's not without a damn fight.

"Are we clear?" Kai technically isn't asking my opinion here. I wonder how many men on the field have encountered this side of him right before he flattens them.

"Diamond," I answer indifferently. I won't cave, even though I'm nearly losing my towel.

"Good," Kai smiles. Just like that, his hand frees my nuts and all is right. I know how to pick the crazies.

"Man, you look beat! Come lay down." Best thing anyone has said in my entire life. "Jet lag is an unforgiving bitch."

I drag myself to the bedroom and plop my naked body on the pillows. Kai gets dressed then sits beside me. "I'm off to watch the boys practice, at the stadium. They know you're here and are requesting you come by tomorrow," he laughs. I laugh, too. They're rowdy, but good rowdy.

"Sleep, _taku ipo_ ," Kai drapes a sheet over me with a kiss. I'm too tired to fight his romanticism. He's too caring to break from tradition, he says, but he knows I'll deck him if he ever brings me flowers.

Kai takes his keys and exits.

I close my eyes, but my mind doesn't close. Relaxing in this private portion of Paradise, I'm replaying Justin's and Kai's parallel words. They are both going after me and not backing down; the same way predators turn on their own to settle a score or assert dominance. The same way I turn on men who foolishly covet the same things I do.

I am a shark swimming in a triangle of other sharks... with an open wound.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re-posted from LiveJournal.

The All Blacks' won the Rugby World Cup, turning my trip into a non-stop worship at the altar of Kiwi culture.

We traded Fiji for Kai's _private island_ off the coast of New Zealand. Players, friends, and lucky fans kept the champagne flowing through New Year's. Even the fucking Prime Minister dropped in to party.

"Ugh! You look a wreck," Cynthia's nose curls as I drag myself past her desk. It's the first she's seeing me since my return home over the weekend. "Gorgeous tan, though," she adds.

Said gorgeous sun-kiss is a memento from soaking up perfect Southern Hemisphere December summer rays. Kai, being a natural outdoorsman and native showoff, snuck us time between wild celebrating to show me his love of country: sailing, surfing, scuba diving…and  _other_  beach activities.

"Happy New Year to you, as well, Cynthia."

I enter my office and perch on the couch, relieved to catch my breath and calm my dizziness.

This lingering ick of overall ill essence has been gnawing at me since my return flight. I suspect bronzer skin isn't the only souvenir I packed. I warned Kai about his strange cuisine corrupting my fine-tuned, high-caliber system.

"Here is your Monday mocha," Cynthia sets down a hot cup. "All forms accumulated in your absence are now uploaded to your network."

I peel off my coat then suit jacket. "You were instructed to forward forms to my network as they arrived. Instead you rigged my login password."

"Well you never take real vacations--sue me," Cynthia shrugs. "Plus Ken was here to sign off on anything time sensitive."

I nod. "So, not only does my VP now outrank me, but I have the pleasure of laboring through," I check the file on my phone, "fifty-four documents, on my first day back. Good job, Cynthia."

"Technically, it's fifty-three. I think the two from Justin are related. I never read those things through."

"What does Justin want now? More crayons?" I sip my mocha, irritating my sudden cold clamminess.

"Switch this to _iced_ ," I hand over my drink, "and get some air in here," I loosen my tie. "Did you vacuum seal my office? It's so damn muggy."

Cynthia operates the window control panel. My neck welcomes the new cool air.

I reply to various departmental documents with a scroll of my electronic John Hancock—Ted's year-end projections are particularly attention-grabbing.

Cynthia returns with my iced mocha, eagerly pulling up her chair to update me on what I missed: the copy room has become a prime after-hours spot for secretaries looking to climb their supervisor's corporate ladder.

I remember when that room was Big Gay Al's "Top Submission Chamber" in the old bathhouse, so it's hard for me not to appreciate the poetic justice of history living on.

"By the way, you didn't tell me Justin got hotter! How is that even possible?"

"Why was Justin _here_?" my face scrunches. "He could've just emailed his form."

Justin's no stranger to Kinnetik, but after our situation at Christmas he's not really on my buddy-list.

"Some sort of meeting—I don't remember now. Maybe the Art department?"

Sounds plausible. _Top Toys_ , a major adult toy supplier in The Netherlands, has a Valentine's campaign in the pipeline that Justin is spearheading.

"And Nomine?" Cynthia continues chatting, "The entire office came to a halt the second they saw her! Even got a smile out of Grumpy George in Maintenance. Damn those good genes people."

"You do realize you're one of us too?" I joke, but my body still feels sore, sweaty, and shitty. I'm focused on finishing these replies quick so I can go squeeze in an impromptu check-up. Whatever I caught might need more than over-the-counter remedies.

Of course the next page I see doesn't help my sickness.

"That son of a bitch!" I bark.

Cynthia halts mid-sentence, justifiably looking at me perplexed. I order her to leave and close my door behind her.

Justin picks up his phone with his usual smiling charm.

"You're not increasing your shares in my fucking company!"

"Kinnetik's governance bylaws permit current shareholders the privilege of buying out departing shareholders at cost. Lucia is ready to retire and run for office back home in Guatemala. I invited her for lunch at Britin last weekend."

This proposed transaction leave Justin tying up twenty-five percent of Kinnetik's stock. The second largest shareholder. Even with consensus voting that amount of say can influence other Board members' opinions. Tides change when people value the insight of the man whirling new ideas. I know because typically I'm that man.

"Fuck this! I'm vetoing your motion and filing a separate one to buy you both out. Your fifteen percent was a gift from me anyway." If I vote against the change, it can't go through without deliberation. Consensus. I love ironclad rules.

"That's an option available to you, but," Justin winces, "other board members see me as an invaluable asset to the next phase of Kinnetik, and an old trusted acquaintance. Expect lots of backlash if you muscle up.

"Told you I'd get my groove back," Justin smiles.

I'm claustrophobic. Everything feels restricted. The situation makes less and less sense. Justin is invading my last ring of control.

For what? No second chance can be worth all this.

"I don't give a shit if—"

My chest tightens.

I drop the phone and clutch my heart, but my arm is numbing up. My breaths labor.

"Brian, are you throwing a tantrum?Seriously." Justin is miraculously still connected, but my phone-screen must have fallen not facing my turmoil.

I crumple to the coffee table, knocking my titanium bowl of Asian pears to the tile floor.

The pain and panic is excruciating. I try forcing air into my lungs to shout for Cynthia. I fail. There's a frenzy of unidentifiable background activity, but it's all pointless—this isn't something I'll survive.

As the room fades to black, I realize how fitting it is that my last touchstone to life is hearing Justin screaming my name.

\---  
My eyes awake to dimmed lighting and the sound of quiet machinery. My dry throat croaks to clear itself.

"Brian?" a voice shakes with hopeful trepidation.

Cynthia.

"I'll tell the nurse you're up."

I close my eyes again, feeling out of sorts. I'm loopy. I can't tell if it's drugs or just my body being worn out and physically uncomfortable.

Cynthia's heels soon return to my bedside. I turn my face and find her fiddling with the ice pitcher. She spoon-feeds me a few small ice chips.

"With the success of the Feminist Movement you'd think the crabby, middle-aged female nurse stereotype would be outdated. I bet your dick is the first they've seen since Nixon."

To comfort Cynthia's nervous ranting, I open my palm, wanting to show her what my voice can't yet say: It's all right. I'm alive.

Our fingers hug. Cynthia releases a deep breath.

She hears my touch.

"You scared me, boss. Real bad," the tears creep into Cynthia's words.

"If Justin hadn't called 911 when he heard the commotion… I mean, I was scrambling like a dumbass to remember CPR until the operator yelled for me to grab the defibrillator. It was almost too late." Cynthia whispers, staring at her thumb rubbing my knuckles.

There's a knock at the door. A classy, round Indian woman in a white lab coat enters, smiling warmly.

"Glad you awoke, Mr. Dean," she walks to the far wall to let the bright morning shine through the heavy blinds.

Who the fuck is Mr. Dean?

"I registered you as James Dean to keep the news from leaking," Cynthia whispers to me.

Running a marketing empire enforces my PR be advanced and at the helm of everything affecting Kinnetik's image. In our world, image is money; I can't afford my health creating clientele doubt.

"I'm Dr. Sanjeet, the cardiologist who operated on you," the woman holds my free hand and sits on my bed. She speaks with a curly Indian accent—very motherly tone—and smells of exotic flowers and just niceness.

"You were unconscious when they brought you into the emergency room this morning. I doubt you remember much."

According to Dr. Sanjeet, I had a myocardial infarction—a heart attack, she dumbs it down. The angioplasty cleared my blocked artery and the stent implanted great. I need to stay three more days for observation because my tests show mild irregularities.

I want to wallow in the shock of me having a heart attack, but not hearing the words "bypass surgery" or "transplant" automatically makes the news sound better.

"Loss of oxygen to the heart is extremely dangerous as it kills heart cells and damages the muscle. This directly affects circulation to other organs," Dr. Sanjeet explains. "Normally a non-responsive person experiences a more severe diagnosis but you are a lucky man, Mr. Dean."

"We're jogging every lunch-break and doing kale cleanses," Cynthia rambles. "No more cigarettes or coffee or booze…or men, either."

I'm packing a bag of this morphine drip when I go.

"You are a _smoker_ , Mr. Dean?" my good doctor looks shocked. "But, your charts say you had stage III testicular cancer. No, we must fix that behavior. Very bad."

I'm inclined to answer 'Yes, Mom', but fear Dr. Sanjeet won't get the joke…or she will and Debbie-slap me upside my head.

"Any questions?"

"No," I speak for the first time.

"Can his family see him? They've been waiting."

Dr. Sanjeet considers Cynthia's request. "Normally, I'd say a few at a time, but because you are still exhausted, I rather one big group limited to a fifteen minute visit. It's a private suite so I can bend the capacity rule. Please watch your heart monitor closely."

\---  
By 11:30 a.m. I'll be a free man.

Dr. Sanjeet is releasing me with orders for my recovery to transition smoothly at home, or I will be summoned back here for prolonged cardiac care.

"Ready to bust out this joint?" asks one of the last voices I'd expect to hear between these hospital walls.

Who surprises a heart attack survivor?

"Justin? What are you doing here?" I rest my tablet computer on my legs.

"Brian, careful—your monitor."

I'm fuming to destroy Justin for all he's caused me, but he's right: my health is top priority. Taking deep breaths, I watch my monitor numbers decrease.

Justin drops my leather Louis Vuitton day-bag in an empty recliner—he's been at the loft—and stands beside me

Nomine is active, tucked on her back in a body hammock made from high quality wool. 

"How're you feeling?" Justin bounces and pats the sling to quiet Nomine's babbling.

"Like I had a fucking heart attack, Justin. Why are you here?"

"I'm your ride home."

"Pittsburgh's a bit of a detour from Manhattan, don't you think?"

"You, of all people, know New York's not that far by jet. And I didn't have to steal your credit card this time," Justin smiles.

I scoff. This punk has put me on too many adventures over the years.

"Go home, Justin. Find someone else to manipulate to death."

The words sound unfair once I say them, but I want my pound of flesh.

"That's not funny, Brian," Justin tenses.

"Look around you. I'm wearing a dress!" I point to the hospital gown under my robe. "Who the fuck is laughing?"

"Here," Justin heatedly reaches for the bag he carried in. "I brought your Hugo Boss jeans and the sweater I gave you the Christmas we all went to The Alps," he unloads each item.

"They're the most comfortable clothes you own outside of your silk pajamas, which I knew better than to bring lest I dare suggest you wear _sleepwear_ outdoors."

As usual, Justin is dramatic but partially correct. The day I wear pajamas in public is the day I buy spray tan and ten dollar mall manicures. Fashion is too diverse to blatantly misuse.

"In the future, please refrain from breaking into my property. We have laws here in Pennsylvania."

I peel back the covers and slide my legs over the side. Justin looks ready to help me, but my warning glare clears that up.

"You never changed the security alarm code?" Justin inquires.

Justin hasn't earned the right to know those certain details.

"Why didn't you bring my brown ones? These aren't casual," I change the subject, holding up my black boots.

"These match your jeans," Justin counters.

I've never heard such unstylish foolishness.

Justin unties Nomine's contraption and spreads it on the bed before resting her down. He removes her warm outerwear; her glittery bright-blue snowman fleece jumper pops in the bland room.

"No one outside Montana's state lines matches their shoes to their pants, Justin."

"Sorry. I'm a 'gay school' dropout. Is that better or worse than a beauty school dropout?"

Nomine rolls onto her stomach, awkwardly attempting to propel herself forward and claim my precious computer barely out of her reach. I'd say "attempting" is the keyword here.

"You really think you can crawl, huh?" Justin opens his coat and sits on the foot of the bed, folding his and Nomine's scarves and accessories on his lap.

Having showered and shaved this morning, I strip off the hospital garbs and gladly pull on my jeans.

The knock at the door better be the damn discharge papers I'm waiting for.

Dr. Sanjeet enters, pausing at my company.

"Mr. Dean, I apologize. I didn't know you had visitors."

"Mr. Dean?" Justin mouths to me.

"James Dean?… Duh."

"Hello, I'm Dr. Sanjeet," she holds out her hand to Justin.

"Hi, I'm… TinkerBell," Justin shakes back, confusing the doctor.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. TinkerBell. And who is this big girl?" Dr. Sanjeet rubs Nomine arm with her finger.

"This is Nomine," Justin proudly introduces his daughter.

"Look at those eyes—so blue!"

The little girl stops her heartfelt not-crawling to check out the new person with the nice necklace and makes a sloppy grab at it.

"No, Nomine!" Justin reacts, blocking her tiny hand. "Sorry, Doctor. She likes jewelry and has a strong grip, too."

Babies don't often get my approval, but Nomine's taste for precious gemstones is commendable. Another tidbit to add to her list of likable traits.

Dr. Sanjeet chuckles off the incident. "She looks about…five months?"

"Yes, on the fourteenth."

"My grandson is almost a year. They grow so fast! It's marvelous she's determined to move on her own; she'll be creeping ahead of schedule."

"My poor house," Justin jokes and kisses his no longer interested daughter.

"Mr. Dean, you have a lovely family."

"Thank you, but we're not together," I voluntarily clarify loud enough for Justin to catch my drift. Dr. Sanjeet is too professional to pry, but I know the domestic impression radiating from the scene of two men—one half-dressed—and a baby sharing the same bed.

"Oh, I just assumed… My apologies."

Dr. Sanjeet moves past her mea culpa and presents a hand device. "Here are your discharge forms. Please review the dates and details before you sign, as your payment will be based on this information. You may drop it off at the nurses' station when you leave.

Dr. Sanjeet extends an amber pill bottle. "Here is your _Plavix_. The pharmacy downstairs has the prescription on auto-refill. Your next appointment is set for the date your first refill needs pick-up. Any questions?"

I glance over the screen of words, my trained eyes having fished enough contracts for red flags to quickly know this looks in order. The hospital will still sneak in an extra charge—they're notorious crooks—but I doubt they can bounce a uncapped credit card.

I sign then scan my thumbprint for confirmation. "Can I leave now?"

"Yes. Please remember what we discussed: your body is still healing. Pay attention to soreness and fatigue and call 911 right away if _any_ chest pains return!"

I nod in understanding at Dr. Sanjeet's stern no-nonsense look.

"Okay. See you soon, Mr. Dean."

"Thanks for everything, doctor." She really is great.

"Goodbye," Dr. Sanjeet says to Justin.

"Bye, pretty girl," she tickles a finger under Nomine's chin, who squeals a big baby belly laugh and rips a fart.

"Real classy, little lady," I laugh.

"Phew! Excuse you, Nom-Nom," Justin fans the air.

\---  
I slide open the loft's door, grateful to cross the threshold and reclaim my natural domain. This space has rooted itself enough in my identity for me to call it home.

"You okay?" Justin comes up behind me.

I turn to him. "Justin, one Debbie is enough nagging—don't be a Debbie Jr."

Justin smiles and sets Nomine on the kitchen counter, fast asleep in her car-seat.

"I'm going to lay down. Want me to rest her on the bed?"

"No. Our things are all set up."

Things? I look around seeing the jumbo air matress and travel crib for the first time. A few hefty pieces of luggage surround them.

"You are _not_ pitching your tent here."

"Brian, it's only for the night," Justin brushes me off. "Breathe."

I'm tired and preoccupied enough to let Justin think he's off the hook, and that I don't know he's secretly planning to dig in for a longer haul.

Actually, I currently lack the energy to confront any matter regarding Justin.

"Now, go relax. I have to scan these nutrition pamphlets for a 'heart healthy' lunch recipe."

I roll my eyes. First Cynthia wants to move me to a monastery, now Justin wants me to live off rabbit food—fucking overkill.

Unlike the average American man, prolonged stress and an addictive, vice-filled gay lifestyle are to blame for my heart going postal, not a love for deep-fried Oreos. It's simply the price of being me. I doubt there's substantial research on the topic in any medical journal.

"Whatever, Justin. Take-out menus are programmed into the organizer. You know where to find them, Chef Boyardee."

I make my way up the small steps and close my screens.

\---  
"That better not be work."

"No," I look up. "Cynthia won't respond to my work emails. It's possible my employment has been terminated."

"It's for your own good," Justin yawns and stretches; his towel accidentally falls off his shoulder. "Well, I'm off for a nice warm shower, then hopefully a warm pillow calls my name. Keep an ear on the baby for me—not that she should be waking up after the day we had."

"Got it," I confirm as Justin strolls into the bathroom.

Once the door shuts, I resume my previous activity—editing my will. Theodore and my estate attorney are meeting me Thursday to update a few allocations, an annual tradition I'm moving up a lot earlier this year because of all that's happened. Justin's superstitious about these things and can't know I'm doing this.

Life must think very little of me: It birthed me into the most humbling and love-absent setting, then handed me a gay-card to remind me how unwelcome I was there;

It turned my teen and young-adult years into a fight for a fair spot in the world though I'd never have a fair shot at receiving one;

Not withstanding, it's allowed me to feast on what sweet success I manage to bite off, but sits a bottle of vinegar in my periphery as a constant reminder of how quick the taste can be changed;

And, for all I've done and all I'm worth, as an act of further depreciation I was warranted the floor of my office for my almost last breath.

Well fuck you too, life!

I refuse to pretend I'm grateful to any external entity for achievements I built myself from scratch and bust my ass every day to keep built.

No, instead it's the people in my life I'm indebted to: The Guses. The Justins. The Debbies. The Mikeys. The Lindsays. The Cynthias. The Gang. The love I had to find by proxy and learn to accept on my own terms.

They're who I create a will for anyway. When my body does get pulled back to the dark side and I'm denied a return ticket, I want them to have all the things I stole from life as a thank you.

Even if losing me is no true loss—some might agree I don't deserve to be missed—and the coins of the dead asshole in good Gucci are all they want, I will peacefully burn in Hell knowing I paid my dues to everyone.

Wow, my blood is definitely pumping! It's dangerous how entertaining mental demons sets me on edge. I better chill out on the death thoughts a bit.

Listening to the shower run, I consider the scholarship fund I'm setting up in Nomine's name. It will only be for the educational and economical benefit of kids less fortunate than her—the newest generation of Brians. She's a rich heiress with no use for my money, but there's no way Justin's daughter goes unacknowledged. She's family, too.

My meds are making me drowsy, so I think I'll save the "Bradley Cooper in baby oil eulogy reading" clause to discuss Thursday.

\---  
Call it intuition, but I swear I'm being watched. I pry open my fatigued cement eyelids.

The couple items I remember scattered on my lap have vanished; a blanket now takes their place. My pillows feel fluffed.

Darkness swallows my vision. My closed blinds block all street-light penetration. Past the door-screens, only a soft sliver of opposing light shines in the loft—I presume it's where Nomine's crib is set up.

Luckily, I don't need clarity to confirm Justin's presence.

"You were supposed to go to bed after your shower," I sigh to the ceiling, rubbing my eyes.

"I haven't slept in days," Justin's answer floats from my right. I spot him curled up in the huge armchair I usually keep by my closet. He has it drawn close to my bed.

"You looked so peaceful when I walked past. I panicked for a quick second thinking maybe you'd…" Justin trails off, but picks back up.

"When I saw your chest move I decided to stay and make sure it doesn't stop."

Justin's worries means he's finally grieving my near-death. It was cruel of life to not cut our call.

"Cynthia told me you saved my life."

"At the drop of a phone you were gone forever," Justin looks directly into my eyes. The darkness has a way of receding when you know exactly what you're looking for.

"Justin, I'm not dead."

"You could've lost your pulse in the ambulance," Justin explains, worser disconnected from what we're experiencing.

"They could've rushed you into surgery and not been able to resuscitate your heart.

"By time I landed, there could've been a message waiting from the hospital." Justin closes his eyes to let his tears spill.

I realize these are products of Justin's scared, sleep deprived subconscious.

"Justin—that never happened."

Justin willows. "You could've been too cold. I could've laid beside you to warm you up.

"I could've said I loved you; said I was sorry; asked you not to hate me anymore.

"I could've said goodbye," Justin's words struggle, "you could've been silent."

I slowly sit up. At the edge of the bed I pull Justin between my legs.

I rest Justin's hand over my heart. "See? I'm here. All that's in your head—none of it's true. "

Justin shakes his head. "I _begged_ you not to leave me," he sobs. "Am I that bad you won't stay for me? "

I bite back on my rational reflex—reasoning will fail to comfort Justin in this traumatic state.

I'm a mortal creature with a twelve year head-start on him and permanently increased risks of repeat heart attacks and cancer, but Justin needs me to promise I'll survive those trivial facts.

"Don't think about it," is the best I can offer.

Justin slowly caresses my hair, probably needing tangible evidence his nightmares are wrong.

My fingers reach up to cradle Justin's wet face.

Justin surrenders to my touch, leaning into my palm.

"Stop making me lose you, Brian."

I guide Justin closer.

"I will," I assure Justin with authority I don't possess.

Lowering my back on the mattress, I force Justin to follow me down and straddle my thighs.

We kiss.

My hands occupy Justin inside his soft flannel pants. Justin's skin is warm and smells of my unique shower gel; his freshly washed hair sweeps my forehead.

My erection pokes Justin's inner thigh to tell him what time it is.

Justin's mouth burns every inch of skin it beckons out of hiding, trailing perfect wet 'O's along my throat.

I teleport back to when this behavior was a norm for this bed; now the scene is set to a different plot.

Justin's hips grind our covered cocks.

"Brian, we can't," Justin pants.

My hands expose Justin's ass and glide along his crack.

"I know," I suck on Justin's fingers and press against his perineum while my other hand moves between us to nestle his sack.

Justin's eyes close, "Doctor…sex…heart…" he explains, unconciously moving deeper into my arms—the opposite direction of his warning.

"I'm paying attention to my body."

I should care more, be more afraid of consequences but Justin tastes too good, feels too right.

I roll us on the diagnol, tucking Justin under me.

Justin's moan signals our crossing the point of no return; he wants this, too—we're taking the risk together.

Justin coaxes off my t-shirt.

I lean over to grab equipment from the nightstand drawer, pressing my naked torso to his face.

Justin sucks my nipple.

I lose my grip on the bottle of lube which falls on Justin's nose. Something unpredictable always happens when Justin and I have sex; it's the invisible imperfection in the masterpiece—the one only the artist knows exists.

Justin's expert cock-stroke bows my spine like a violin; I want more and less of it simultaneously.

Justin's shirt quickly meets mine so I can attack his shoulder g-spot, a favorite of mine from the day I discovered he had it.

The lube and condom transfer to Justin's custody so he can prepare me.

Every touch is newly familiar.

Borrowing some lube, I hold Justin's knee back for access.

"Be patient," Justin breathes in my ear, "I'm tight."

I fix my eyes on Justin's face the entire time I work to untighten his clam-tight hole.

One finger seems to be Justin's maximum width—guess Daddy's bed's been cold since the little one—but I soon break him back to size, riding my fingers for more stretch.

When the time comes, I manuvere us both to our sides and hoist Justin's leg over my hip, easing me of the over exertion of fully topping.

Justin takes the lead—a safe habit I taught him to use whenever he bottomed—and guides me inside him.

Pieces that haven't melded in years fit like custom-made keys.

The world spins out of orbit.

Justin and I relax into our adjusted position, setting a pace that matches the purpose of why we're having sex: to wallow in the pleasure of certainty.

It's never just sex when I'm inside Justin.

At Hunter and Lorri's wedding, our horny quarreling almost teetered into a 'Let's fuck before I murder you' mess. Tonight, our longing embrace screams 'Always be here to not murder me'. We work in all moods.

I give Justin small increments of force. Justin, in turn, gives me his approval.

The musk of soulful man-sex tranquilizes me.

"Brian…" Justin presses his palm to my biceps.

All I can do to stay grounded is rest my face on Justin, close my eyes, and inhale him.

I know if I reach deeper and harder, and Justin clenches me stronger and louder, we'll eventually cum to the release we're seeking.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter re-posted from LiveJournal. Next chapter will be brand spanking new, but not expected to be posted until next week.

My eyes open to Justin's warm, wet mouth exploring my chest; his careful touches leave behind a trace of therapeutic tingles.

The fog of sleep clouds my mind, making it hard to make out anything beyond the warm sunrise hugging my bed, highlighting our silhouettes, tangled in my ruby sheets.

I gasp as one of Justin kisses lands over a particularly sore reminder of yesterday's heart mishap—unless I'm obese and living under a comb-over, I'd never use "heart attack" as a label that applies to me.

Now picking up that I'm awake, Justin's lips smile then greet mine. Our passion builds—as expected—triggering an instant hunger for more. Justin's hand snakes behind my neck—his signal to me to take control of him.

I feel myself drowning.

Without hesitation, my body pivots, perfectly positioning itself to pin Justin under me. He feels solid and warm and right… almost as right as he did last night.

Last night.

Memories of Justin and me—in this bed, in these sheets—come together, spelling out the reality of the world we woke up in today: a world where our lives are contaminated by questions we'll have to figure out answers to. Such as: "How?"

I make a valiant attempt to fight against the pull of Justin's mouth on mine, no longer sure of myself. The current of Justin's demanding tongue keeps yanking me under, though, and I surrender to it more times than I should've before he eventually releases me, out of concern for my resistance.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" Justin takes over, searching my eyes and caressing my chest.

I shake my head and push my fatigued body and preoccupied mind against the headboard, pressing into a mountain of overly fluffy pillows. "Is it time for my meds?"

"No, it's barely dawn," Justin smiles, rubbing any part of my exposed skin he can find.

"Since when do you function pre-noon?"

"Since I gave birth to an alarm clock. She teaches me to survive on less sleep than necessary, and thrive at the ungodliest hours," Justin's lips barnacle themselves under my jaw, sucking and nipping their longtime favorite spot.

"Your twenties teach the same thing—and the military. Well… I can't vouch for the last one." I grapple between states of competence as Justin targets my secretly sensitive neck. In all the years we lasted, he and my ability to think never could coexist.

"Mmm-hmm." Justin's knee grazes my inner thigh. His palm cups me beneath the sheets, cheek and mouth rubbing against my chest.

Justin's intimate touch leaves me a squirming mess. "Kissing up my immaculate body," I rasp, "won't earn you seconds; I don't have any leftovers in me from last night."

Justin's fingers tighten around my cock, momentarily immobilizing me. "That's not how it feels to me. Probably for the better, anyway, you're too huge to take again so soon. I'm not the whore I used to be."

This conversation is heading south, in a hurry. Then again, me being the only person in this room not thinking with my dick must be a sure sign of the apocalypse…

Justin's kisses line up between my pecs, teasing my heartbeats. "Remember how long we use to go, in my carefree youth?"

Justin's tongue circles both my nipples. It dips south to slide along the rift between my abs, then licks the fuzz stripe below my navel. Like a fool I follow him with my eyes, transfixed when his blues look back and throw me a wink.

"All night, all positions.

"I'd cum; you'd plow through until I came again. Nothing like losing ten pounds without leaving your bed," Justin taunts me.

I swallow to keep back the moans in my throat, but Justin's blond five o'clock scratching my naked, stimulated skin conducts every sound from me in a symphony of pleasure.

As the sun burns too early in the sky to be real morning—too early for anyone else in the world to be coherent enough to judge us—Justin and I play for Round Two of a winner-less game. I should use this moment as the perfect opportunity it is, to blurt out any litany of thoughtful words regarding bad decisions and regret that we desperately need to hear, but Justin is fucking _everywhere_ —like always—and I'm struck powerless, at his mercy—like always.

What is there to say, though, that hasn't already been said or, at the least, implied? _'Hey, Justin. You mind not sucking my cock? We need to talk about last night'_? I doubt that's a thing people do.

Furthermore, since when am I Justin's guardian? Hello, recovering patient… I can't run everything around here. Justin's smart enough to know not to fuck his ex one and a half times in twenty-four hours. If he disregards those consequences, that's on him.

Unless, this was his ruinous plan all along?

He wouldn't…

Would he?

My hand reaches out on its own accord, my brain telling it to push Justin away and demand answers. Somehow, that message isn't received and an autonomous decision is made to encourage what's happening between my legs by gently guiding Justin's head.

I should feel ashamed by the conspiratorial smile Justin flashes before I fill his mouth—it's what decent people do when they repeat offenses—except I'm not decent and I saw this coming a mile away. Knowing what I know about last night, and Justin and my's history, there was no possibility Justin _wouldn't_ be stuffing my cock in his mouth this morning. It's in my— _our_ —nature, and who are we to expect change? Besides, blowjobs aren't even on the list of treacherous acts gay men commit.

I watch Justin engulf me; Rome will burn anyway, might as well enjoy the fire—Emily Post's teachings on ex-banging etiquette aside, this is the very last time we'll let shit get this far, so there's no harm in one for the road—not to mention how rude it'd be for me to interrupt now.

Applying the right levels of spit and pressure, Justin sets a perfect pace. He strokes and swallows me—all throat, no hands—a life of practiced technique fine-tuned to maximize my satisfaction. There's meaning behind every detail of Justin—his touch, his smell, his presence—and responding to the _him_ ness of him brings me comfort I forgot I was missing. The constant matching of myself to Justin has been gone from my life for a while, yet I fill the role with ease—his expectations of me have irreversibly imprinted into my DNA…like a puppet to his master.

By time I realize it, I reach the height of my awareness, and, with a blind brush of my fingertips against Justin's hair, I completely unravel.

When time returns to reality, Justin meets me back at eye-level with a full smirk, soothing me through my orgasmic aftershocks. The hidden danger in this scene is the Pandora's Box I unleashed once I closed my eyes and spread my legs.

Now, in the afterglow, I can see nothing will be salvageable.

\---  
"Not sure how blowjobs fit into your recovery plan, but I figured—"

"You'd grab the bull by his horn."

"Exactly," Justin smiles. In the natural light, a layer of his blue eyes peel away, leaving them a shade of clear glass. I bet if I glimpse close enough, I can stare at my reflection and watch Justin watch me.

Somewhere inside myself, I struggle to accept my fate as a man of two hearts: there are spaces in my life Justin can no longer occupy…and spaces where he remains the sole occupant.

Holding that eye contact, I keep swimming in Justin's less-than-blue mirrors, latching onto false strength I find floating there. I utter my next words:

"Justin… this can't happen again."

…and I set us free.

\---

I watch Justin’s face fall. A split second later he recovers with a flippant air of confidence so much like my own.

“Can’t do what again? Share a bed?”

“No, share body fluids.”

“Not even blood transfusions? ”

“Justin, I'm serious. ”

“Why? What makes me so different from the plenty of other men you fuck?”

I want to ask Justin if he's kidding because how can he not know him just being him makes all the difference; that even if we didn’t have to be cautious of the history and complicated emotions that bind us, I still could never see us being a casual fling.

But, of course I say nothing like that; those truths must only be alluded to, never spoken aloud.

“It’s not a matter of you being different. Kai and I–”

“Oh, Kai and you nothing,” Justin rolls his eyes with a sigh. He sits up straighter–front to me, back to the window–naked except for the crumpled corner of sheet haphazardly covering his lap. I can tell he's agitated. “Jeez, Brian, you behave as though he's your first or something. Is that it? Did Kai-Kai ask you to go steady then pop your cherry?” Justin pouts his bottom lip.

Okay, so mentioning Kai’s name in bed with Justin was neither smart nor fair, but I can't be blamed for him naturally being on my mind. I still ignore Justin's childishness though, with one of my stern looks that probably never once worked on him.

From where I’m propped up, the sunlight captures Justin's angles, casting him against a glowing backdrop. I take a long, thirsty look at his nonchalant pose of defeat–right foot tucked under my ribs; knee bent to hold up his elbow; his opposite hand raking through his hair, pinning his side-swept bangs at bay as he rubs at the back of his neck, an angry habit he's always had. His profile transforms into that of a heartbroken, wayward Greek god, perched atop Mt. Olympus to toil over the fates of mortals who dare act against his wishes.

“Look,” Justin continues, not seeming to mind that he's having this entire conversation by himself, “I don’t give a damn if your boyfriend discovered a spare hole: Brian Kinney plays by no one else’s rules. You always take who you want, when you want them. I had to live by that code; if he plans on sticking around, he better learn it too and stop kidding himself.”

No matter how wrong I was for my mea culpa, Justin has no right to dictate how my life should be lived. “Who said anything about rules? What we had when we had it was our thing; Kai and I aren’t you and me.

“And, just for your own information, I don't need you telling me who I am–I'm not lost; I'm still me. So if I decide not to keep fucking my _demented ex_ ,” I stress with practically no heat in my words, “it's because it's what's best for my fucking health.”

Justin’s face stiffens. The hand resting on his neck swiftly moves forward and flicks me on my arm.

“Really? You _flicked_ me?”

“You called me demented. I’m not,” Justin retaliates. As he forces himself to look anywhere but at me, I see a flash of the teen who grew up between these walls–in this bed–way too quickly, way too long ago.

“Hope you're not planning on pushing me off the monkey bars at recess, next. One hospital stay per year is kinda my limit,” I smirk and tap my chest hoping to keep things more lighthearted than they've been lately. I'm in no shape to go guns blazing this time.

“Fucking unreal,” Justin shakes his head and exhales. “Nothing can ever be predictable with you.” Okay. So that's a _no_ on lighthearted.

“I’m so ready, and you…” Justin covers his face in frustration, “you… you’re supposed to be ready too, Brian. You always are.”

“Ready for what?” I scoff. I’m not 'supposed to be' _anything_.

“For me, Brian,” Justin’s voice barely reaches my ears. “Every time I followed my head and wandered off on some grand idea, this is where the breadcrumbs lead my heart back to. Home… to you. You have always been mine; always waiting for me.”

I swallow hard and watch Justin watch me. I want to use my words, but only silent ones come to my mouth. I settle for the form of communication that built us, the one way that always got one of us to pay attention to the other when neither wanted to listen…

Touch.

My hand carefully closes the distance between our fingertips, covering the back of Justin’s hand.

I try not to focus on how easily my palm fits the back of his; or how quickly I notice his skin feels drier than normal under mine. I only focus on the touching.

And in that seemingly small, yet infinite, moment of contact, Justin knows I know he’s right about me always being his–it’s an irrefutable fact.

He also knows this time won't be like the others.

I continue to hold my silence. The thoughts swarming my mind won’t help our situation if I voice them. Justin is my founder, the man who discovered me when no one else was even looking for me–I’ll never want his imprint erased from my life. And for all the times he came home to me, I felt _I_ wasn’t at home until he walked through my door.  
  
Yes, I need to stand my ground and free Justin–free me–give myself this chance I have with Kai, but telling Justin I’m forever no longer his is something I’m incapable of doing. I can be distant, busy–hook up with other guys–but how can I not be Justin's?

“Brian…” I watch Justin's resolve shatter before me. His eyes fill and he wipes an escaping tear with the hand not trapped under mine. “You’re the only man I want to come home to.”

I blink back my own watery eyes; my insides are tearing apart. Could I be wrong about this? Am I setting Justin free into a world where he’ll feel abandoned? Unloved? Am I that much a fundamental part of his life? Lost boys such as myself know the pain of loneliness all too well; I could never knowingly unleash it on Justin.

Except Justin’s not a boy. He's neither abandoned nor unloved. And his life is _filled to the brim_ with equally fundamental people. This is only the end of an era of us filling certain roles in each other’s’ lives; it's definitely not the end of us _being_ in each other’s’ lives. After these past years of us not speaking, I wouldn't want to get rid of him again anyway.

I un-bite my tongue, hardly more comfortable with my decision to lay in the bed I've made, but knowing I must follow through with this. If nothing else, one of us needs to finally resolve the mess we've made of our lives so we can _both_ get to good places and stop living tethered to this rollercoaster.

“Justin, I-” I pinch my eyes to stop the burning tears. I have the words formed, but either they're stuck in my throat or I'm not ready to say them. Doing as I've done before countless risky business deals to override my nerves, I take a deep breath and force myself out my comfort zone. “I’m not only yours anymore.”

Justin nods and holds his head down, crying. The urge to separate our hands is strong, but I tighten my hold. If I let go of him in this vulnerable moment, it means I'm letting go forever–that's not what this is about.

“Justin.” Justin’s reddened blues make contact, “I need you to know,” I ignore my falling tears, “I don’t hate you.” Justin gives up his composure and ekes out a sob. “This is something personal I have to do, for me.”

“What? Personal? Like _revenge_?” Justin's face scrunches; he looks ready to jump off the bed. “How many times do I have to apologize for our split? I thought it was for the best!”

“No, not that, Justin... closure. Closure we should’ve had a long time ago.”

“Well I don’t want it. Let’s not close anything,” Justin suggests with a sniffle. “Take it back; we'll continue where we ended.”

I shake my head. As good as Justin's plea sounds, we can't move backwards. “I love you too much to do that. You’ve gotten so far without me, Justin. Look at the life you have now. You've made leaps; I have too. We’re resilient. We'll get past this.”

Justin dries his contorted face with the sheet. We're beyond a mess now; modesty is pointless to maintain. There's no saving face when your face is covered in tears.

“What about last night?” Justin's eyes pierce me. “Don't tell me you didn't feel how amazing we were together.”

“Last night happened because we were both scared. We needed a distraction to help us clear the air of me getting sick and everything else that was going on.”

Justin rolls his eyes. “You always have incredible sex with people, ‘to clear the air’?”

“I _only_ have incredible sex. Period.”

Justin smiles… then chuckles… and soon he's full-blown laughing!

“You disagree?” I raise a slow, insulted eyebrow at Justin, partly questioning his mental health.

“No-” Justin tries controlling his outburst. “It’s not-” he breaks off again, doubling over.

Against my will, my own attitude loosens, the corners of my mouth give, and I catch Justin’s contagious laughing fit. While I’m not let in on the supposed joke, I get it all the same. Admittedly, this level of humiliation is one I wear in front of a very exclusive minority of people. After all, I never make an ass of myself–without reason.

Justin and I eventually simmer to stray giggles. We needed that; just like telling a joke at a funeral.

Justin relocates to my side, matching my position against the headboard. During our hysteria, it felt safe enough to let go of his hand, but now our shoulders touching seem to provide that same comfort.

“I wish I could bottle this and sell it.”

“What?” I turn to look at Justin expectantly.

“Us. It’s beyond peculiar how we naturally exist in this-this timeless bubble, yet never acknowledge its existence,” Justin pontificates.

“Please explain oh wise Gay Hippie.”

"I’m not being a hippie," Justin lightly backhands my stomach, "I’m simply admiring how, with all the distance and baggage between us, we effortlessly end up right back where we started.

"How your touch still makes me explode,” Justin whispers. “I've tried explaining what we have, even to myself, but I'm always lost for words,” Justin gives me a sad smile.

“There is no bubble,” I shake my head, clearing it of any invading thoughts which would validate Justin's theory. “We are and always have been two deeply fucked-up men with good chemistry and broken pasts. And the only reason we thrive is because no one but us understands best how and why we’re deeply fucked-up.” I don't want to detour from our original conversation onto a path of false hope and misunderstandings.

“That's such a  _you_ way of saying I'm right.”

“It's not. We have a track record of breakups and lies Justin–that says enough. Underneath it all, we only succeed at enabling the worst in each other.”

The words hurt as I say them, but it’s best Justin hear the truth: I don't see us having a future that looks like our past.

Justin straddles my thighs, applying most of his weight on his haunches to avoid unnecessarily burdening me. He always knows just how to handle my body and we always do seem to fit best naked. Leaning back in my original position, I have no option but to face Justin as he towers over me, eyes disbelieving and questioning.

“Is that what you see when you look at me? My bringing out the worst in you, or vice versa?”

I don’t take Justin’s bait. There’s too much hurt in his voice. He lay waits me a moment then approaches his question differently. “Do you know why I always come back? After the ‘breakups and lies’ as you put it?”

“No,” I answer once it’s clear Justin won’t go on without my input. “I used to just be happy you actually returned.”

“I come back home to you because I find no one else's love for me compares to yours,” Justin touches my face. “We’re far more than our worst parts, Brian.

“And I get that you have your reasons for pushing me away, and trust me I'm not one to talk about having other men in my life, but I can't accept–in m _heart_ ,” Justin chokes up, “I can't ever accept never again having this,” he points between us, “be my reality.”

“You have no choice but to accept it,” I gently remind Justin.

“This can't really be happening… God, I was _seventeen_  when you brought me here, now you're telling me I can't come back.”

“I never said I was shunning you. You can even keep your key,” I assure Justin.

“Never said I was giving it back.” Justin takes a deep breath and climbs off me “I tell you though…” Justin glares at me, “had I known you'd one day be the price I had to pay for leaving, I'd have never left.” He forgoes trying to make sense of the clothes on my floor and takes the first robe he sees hanging on my closet door.

My eyes–and heart–follow Justin's movements. Every cell in me wants to make this easier than it can be, but that's unlikely; as Justin clearly spelled out for me, he's been entitled to this life from day one–I'm the one changing the rules.

“Sometimes, your glass slipper just fits another Cinder-fella,” I try a last-ditch effort at humor to ease our unease. Too much damage was done here; everything seems strained, uncertain.

Justin is frozen in place but won't face me, pretending he's tying the robe. “You’re not the only size Brian in the kingdom; I’m not the only size Justin,” I explain. “And it might seem unfair or be the last thing you want right now, but we’ll never lose the nights we spent at the ball.”

“Yeah?” Justin scoffs. “Well your boyfriend know you're here dancing barefoot with me?”

Got me there.

“Didn't think so,” Justin nods solemnly over his shoulder. “Breakfast and meds in ten minutes,” are his final words before he steps into the bathroom

\---  
“Brian, it doesn't taste that bad; just eat it.”

“It's not the taste as much as the texture… and smell,” I push my bowl away.

The weight of our situation presses just as heavily as it did minutes earlier in my bed, but Justin refuses to leave until he's satisfied I’ve _“recovered to my liking”_ –whatever that means. Not even his overworked emotions stopped him from ordering me to sit my ass in the kitchen and eat while he tended to Nomine, once Her Majesty graced our ears with her wake-up wails.

"How did you manage to fuck up cereal?”

“I didn’t,” Justin defends, steadily holding Nomine's bottle to her mouth. Her fingers keep flexing against the sides of the bottle, giving the illusion she's ready to grab on and take over any minute now.

“I bought it yesterday a _Lettuce Be Healthy_ , beside the bank.”

“Your first mistake. No one healthy shops there; now we know why.”

My head turns to the door as the sounds of a whirring elevator and jingling keys permeate the loft. “Great,” I peel a banana, “Now Mikey's coming in to give me a sponge bath and help me put my teeth in.”

“For once, Michael has every right to mother-hen-peck you,” Justin tilts his arm to incline Nomine up a bit.

“Guess you're right. Besides, he always brings good food.” I sip my disappointing decaf. Looking down at my lone banana and disowned bowl of crap, I entertain the prospect of this meal turning into a plate of something a lot tastier.

“You staring at Daddy's crazy hair, Nom-Nom?” Justin dangles his wild bed-head over Nomine's face; her eyes haven't left his all morning.

“Your hobo-ness is probably giving her indigestion.” Justin ignores me and kisses his baby's grabby hands.

Finally, I hear the door slide open, but my plans to jeer Nurse Mikey fall flat when I find _Kai_ tanding in my entryway.

Why did I even bother waking up today?

\---  
  
“Kai?” I slide off my stool and approach him. “What are you-”  
  
Before I can reach the end of my question, Kai's luggage falls from his hands and he pulls me against him. Our bodies mash into one of the same as Kai's hands grip the back of my head and his lips pressuring mine to follow their lead. The deeper Kai's taste invades me, the deeper my tongue delves. Standing chest to chest, each heart pounds directly over the other, and with every movement we make, our prickly five o'clocks scratch. Every sense I own is being utilized.  
  
Knowing I'm slipping out of control, I search for an anchor, anything to leverage my body and emotions before I succumb to how quickly Kai can make me feel good. I'm nothing if I give away the upper hand to another man. I find his firm biceps and squeeze my hands around them, pushing us off each other. When Kai eventually does pull back, he shudders a deep, unsettled breath of relief that fans over my face and ripples through my body. My arms linger on his biceps, where the tension in his body seizes his muscles.  
  
Kai’s vibrant green eyes shimmer over with mist as he gently takes my face between his palms. He looks me over as if I'm something he never thought existed, the stare I imagine a curious onlooker would lay on a mythical mermaid that suddenly appeared to sunbathe on a rock. The intensity in Kai's eyes grows, and I steel myself, preparing for more of his kissing and tasting, but, instead, Kai surprises me… with a hug. It's so sudden my arms end up trapped by my sides as Kai engulfs me, his hands splay against my lower back; his nose and face rub the side of my neck. Being who I am, a man who relies on instinct and leads with his lower body, I'm overcome with the urge to grab Kai by his waist, press him into the door he just entered through, and show him how to better invade my personal space. After all, I have an erection I know how to use and it's not something a smart man would let go to waste.  
  
Suddenly, I'm hearing another voice in me, from a different source, quieter, nagging. It doesn't see Kai's hug as me being taken advantage of, but as a simple opportunity to be hugged. Wrapped in Kai, I can focus on my non-libido responses: how familiar his deodorant smells; how solid and warm his body is; how our heights line us up at eye level–all the inane bullshit my mind has catalogued and re-catalogued since the first time Kai became a second thought to me.  
  
So, I stand, in silence, with my chin perched over Kai's shoulder, look through my still open door–neither a molecule of space between us, nor kinky idea on the tip of my tongue–and take my hug like a man.  
  
“ _Taku ipo_ …” Kai drawls his special name for me in a pained whisper, lips pressed to my temple. “Brian. I was afraid to even _breathe_ before I landed on your doorstep. When your secretary,” I’m imagining the cloud of steam that would rise from Cynthia’s head if she ever heard that title, “rang and told me you were in hospital, and they were working on you,” Kai tightens his hold, “I went fucking numb. I never felt so far from you until that moment; so useless!” Kai’s voice breaks at the end. “I just wanted to hear your voice,” he’s looking at me now, “see your face, but I couldn’t simply reach out and get to you. The whole flight here I panicked, fretting myself grey thinking maybe I was too–” Kai pauses a breath and clears his throat, running a hand through his messy black waves. His now red-rimmed eyes look deep into mine, “I’m just so happy I can breathe again.”  
  
“Me, too.” I duck my head slightly, the weight of Kai’s intimacy and words burn my chest, leaving me overexposed as hell in my own home. But that’s what Kai does. He walks into a room, dressed down in sweats and sneakers, completely unassuming, then looks you dead in your eyes and tells you exactly what’s going on inside him–whether you accept it or not. No apologies; no regrets.  
  
“You’re flushed,” Kai smirks. “Adorable.” That earns him a stony scowl. “Ah, and there’s that viper face I missed so much.  
  
“C’mon,” Kai gestures toward the screens sectioning off my bedroom, “let’s get you in bed. I probably woke you out your–”  
  
A sudden gurgle catches us off-guard. Kai’s eyes widen in surprise as he spins toward the kitchen, where Justin is casually giving us the gay-bitch glare with Nomine reclined in his lap, uninterested and noisy, eyes dancing and wiggling at every movement she catches.  
  
How could I completely forgot about, Justin? Fuck. Me.  
  
Kai glances back at me with a shy, confused grin, “I didn't realize you had company.” His face is a jumble of emotions, but, nonetheless, he walks around the steel pillar previously obstructing his full view of my kitchen, and heads for Justin with a smile.  
  
“ _Kia ora_ , I'm Kai, Brian's… _friend_ … I guess you could say?” Kai greets Justin with a questioning chuckle and friendly extended hand. “And my apologies for all that,” Kai gestures timidly to the door where he and I damn near turned shit biblical, “I didn't see Brian had family over,” he points to Nomine.  
  
I am convinced only a diamond could cut the mixed levels of awkwardness swallowing us here: Justin knows what Kai doesn't yet know he doesn't know; and I know once this all unravels, I will be the one left holding the entire blame.  
  
The devious gleam in Justin's eyes tells me he’s clearly relishing in Kai's naïveté. Using this, intuition, I make up my mind to beat Justin at his own game and save us all from the ugly scene-to-be that will happen if identities are revealed sans warning. But in what could only be a fraction of a second, Justin flashes me a smug look over Kai's still waiting, still extended, slightly insulted hand, confirming with no words that he will certainly not take the high road for Kai's sake, and my tongue crawls down my throat, silencing me. Everything changes to pure slow motion, and Justin frees a hand from around Nomine to grab Kai's. I shake off my paralysis and open my mouth, finding my voice at the last minute, one minute too late.  
  
“I’m Justin, _the_ Justin,” His Blondness cuts me off, shaking Kai's now limp, disgusted hand. “And you can say I'm more than family… and much _much_ more than a _friend?_ ” he mocks Kai’s earlier introduction.  
  
Kai, to his credit, quickly recovers from the anvil drop, smoothly dislodging his hand from Justin's hold. “‘Justin’ you say? Never heard of you.”  
  
Justin smirks. “Please… I'm probably all you think of.”  
  
“Dream on, Peroxide. I'm hardly thinking of you now.  
  
“Brian,” Kai turns to me, mouth rigid and back straight. Pretty sure this must be his tackle face. “A word? And, please, leave your pet out here.”  
  
I pop a dose of _Plavix_ right away–‘ _TAKE WITH FOOD_ ’ label be damned–which turns out to be a smart idea because when Kai walks up the small steps and enters my room, he’s welcomed by rumpled sheets, tossed underwear, and an open bottle of lube. After shooting me the dirtiest look, he storms straight into the bathroom.  
  
“What the fuck,” I drop onto my bed, palms pressing into my eyes. This is all too much.  
  
“I’d get in here fast, if I were you!” Kai bellows.  
  
Kai’s leaning against the outer wall of my shower stall when I walk in to face his wrath. After closing the door for privacy, I press my back against it and wait for shit to hit the fan. I make sure to keep my face entirely unreadable. Nothing good will be said after this point, that’s a given. At this stage in my life very few of my actions come without consequences. Whatever judgment Kai wants to hurl at me is his business; I just hope he makes it quick, and possibly takes Justin with him when he walks out on me so I can get back in my goddamn messy bed and sleep.  
  
“Brian, tell me this is a joke.”  
  
I say nothing. It's my default answer when I'm trapped in situations like this and, honestly, who am I kidding? Kai is done with me and I'm done with being done so who really cares.  
  
“Put words in a fucking sentence and answer me, goddamnit!”  
  
More silence.  
  
“As a matter of fact, continue saying nothing.” Kai walks across the bathroom and gets right in my face. “Because I'm bloody _speechless_ , my fucking self, walking in on your house of lies. And that bitch, Justin–how long you had him living here, huh? Stains on your mattress looked fresh so I'd say you're clearly still an item. And, the little baby, she's yours too, isn't she?” Kai's green eyes almost glow as they pin me down, threatening the truth out of me. “Brian, I swear to God you better tell me now if that babe’s your–”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Oh, he speaks!” Kai shouts to the ceiling and crosses his arms over his chest, widening his stance, _daring_ me to say the wrong thing. “No, what?” he shrugs, “What are you denying?”  
  
“No to everything, including the baby.” I close my eyes as a wave of fatigue crashes into me, my entire life taking its toll, all at once. “Except, yes, we had sex… twice. Last night and–”  
  
“Don't need your fucking sex log,” Kai holds up his hand. “Actually, I don't need any of this. You're more damaged than good, Brian,” Kai tells me.  
  
“And that’s news to you?” I get defensive now. “C’mon, you know who I am; the life I live.”  
  
“Being who you are doesn’t excuse you from responsibility, from being a man! I should be able to expect that much from you, Brian, and not end up humiliated–and _God_ didn’t you even think of me? Was I never a thought to you?”  
  
“I did think of you,” I answer effortlessly, “but we’re not committed, so what’s different from me hooking up at a club than with Justin?”  
  
“Don’t play dumb. That man out there isn't some nameless notch on a bedpost you chat up to your mates over a beers–he’s a part of you, your baggage. And the longer you and him keeping playing with that lit match, the more _I'm_ the one getting fucking burned. How can we,” Kai gestures between us, “move forward with him in the way, always there when you're slipping?”  
  
“Maybe there's nothing to move forward to.” I steel myself as the words leave me, staring directly into Kai to let him know I’m prepared to preserve myself first and foremost in matters of the heart. “Let’s cut our losses here.”  
  
“No,” Kai shakes his head as if he were simply turning down an offer to get pizza.  
  
“No, what?”  
  
“Just no, to everything,” Kai takes an extra step, pressing our bodies as close together as possible. “I refuse to lose you so soon after I got you back.  
  
“I am _crazy_ about you,” Kai’s forehead rests on mine. “I also can't stand some of the shit you do, which means you're exactly the type of man I need in my life. You are selfish to a fault, make impulsive choices, and impossible to crack open more often than not; but you're also brilliant, confident, engaging, and just pure fire.  
  
“In the time it took me to get here, I had to think of my world without you in it and I couldn’t. I kept telling myself to have faith in the unknown because Life happens without our approval all the time, but opening that door and seeing you standing here, I just knew the complications are worth it. Your damaged parts are worth it because they make you into who I love and that’s what this is, love. I love you, all of you, even when there are things I need to forgive you for right this moment, I can't shake the thought that no other man makes me this unhinged. No one else could be as special as you are, Brian.”  
  
Kai unzips his bomber jacket and reveals a black velvet pouch tucked in its inside pocket. He holds my hand open, kisses my palm, and rests the small, weighty package where his lips touched. Knowing our entire ordeal took a sharp U-turn somewhere between me fessing up to sex with Justin and Kai yelling, I have no clue what I should be expecting anymore and pull the strings loose. I reach in and touch a smooth edged object that I immediately pull out. It’s a huge fucking stone, more pristine and unique than any I've seen before. It is entirely opaque with a shade of green that reminds me of spring foliage and a faint scatter of dark spots in a few places. In the harsh light of my bathroom, it glistens almost from inside itself, not the kind of sparkle an emerald shines, but the glassy reflection and texture of an item meant to be worshipped and admired not over-handled. I study it more, the slightly irregular oval cupped securely in my palm.  
  
“It’s _pounamu_ , specifically _kawakawa pounamu_ , or just ‘New Zealand jade’. It’s a treasure in Maori culture steeped far back in history and only naturally found on our South Island, where the _Ngāi Tahu_ tribe lives. I commissioned our highest ranking geologist to mine and handcraft this for you. He showed it to me, and I saw myself looking in your eyes the first time we ever made love.  
  
“Brian Kinney, taku ipo,” Kai changes to his name of endearment, “I had this made for you months ago simply based on the impression you’ve made on my life. I already know you are the man, the one mystery, I will spend the rest of my years figuring out and losing myself in.” Kai wraps his hand around mine and the pounamu. There's a grounded peace in his face, mainly his eyes, as he speaks to me, “You say we’re not committed, well consider this piece of my world, my proposal to you.”  
  
My brain is completely empty. I cannot think beyond Kai’s last words or form words of my own to respond to them. And my emotions are just as useless. Am I imagining this? Is this a weird reaction to my heart pills or that rancid cereal I tasted this morning? Maybe I'm just exhausted. That’s what this is. I need to sit down. Wait, am I already sitting down? No, standing, somehow still standing.  
  
When the world comes back into focus, all I see is Kai, just as sure and smirking as he’s been these last few minutes. “Yes, I did just propose to you. I can do it again if the first time didn’t stick. It’ll be different words, though; I didn’t write anything down.”  
  
“Kai, nothing about me has changed.” I clutch the round cut of pounamu in my hand, slightly wondering if sweat erodes precious stones until I remember it survived probably millions of years already. “I am everything you see right now and lots more you haven’t. I can't promise you anything with a happily ever after; nor would I want to.”  
  
“Nor do I need you to. And right now, I don’t care about any of that. We’re men of a certain lifestyle, you and I, taku ipo, and once you see enough of life you can eliminate what doesn’t have value and cherish what does. I came here today to take care of you and I'm not leaving until you're back on your feet; right now, that’s my main game plan. We will definitely be having a much more interesting conversation about the fuckery that went down here and I will be making a lot of points extremely clear to you because I'm still _livid_ you're entire common sense went on holiday… but I walked through your door today… I walked in and you were standing there and that still makes my heart explode.  
  
“As for the other thing that happened, that’s your call now. I won't mention it again–unless you want me to. I’m sure when you have an answer, you’ll give it to me. Sound fair?”  
  
I look down at my hand, a habit I seem to be drawing strength from, then look back up at Kai and nod steadily.  
  
“Good,” Kai kisses my lips, soft and feathery. “The taxi passed a dairy on the way over here that looks like they sell nice, fresh organic veg and fish and stuff we need to get you right again. I’ll take a peek in your fridge to make a list, but, as of this moment, I’m putting you on my old training diet, and some Maori healing herbs I smuggled in–my Mum swears a cuppa a day rids your toxins and bounces you back like a wallaby. You need energy and iron and lean protein; good stuff.  
  
“When I return, I’ll cook, and scrub this place, top to bottom. I expect you to have burned your sheets and get rid of the bad decision you have sitting in your kitchen. He can leave the baby, though; she’s too damn cute to be his anyway.”  
  
I nod as Kai crosses his arms. This must be a preview of that conversation he promises we will be having soon because he's no-nonsense and no smiles now. “Kai, you cannot take on Justin. There's a certain way to deal with him when he's like this. If I, or especially you, push the wrong buttons, it'll be war. Plus, I don’t want him hurt–that’s non-negotiable.”  
  
Kai looks slightly taken aback by my last comment, but it’s best he hear it upfront from me… the guy he just fucking proposed to.


End file.
